Temporary Insanity
by Fulgance
Summary: After the battle, Draco would like nothing more than to forget that he saved Potter's life. That's proving to be more difficult than expected, given that Harry is in charge of the Malfoys' probation period. "Look, Malfoy, I'm as thrilled about this as you are." / Based on a cut scene from the DH movie.
1. A Flare of Hope

**I'm rather fascinated by the relationship between Draco and Harry, though I've never written about them before. What finally decided me was when I found out about the cut scene from Deathly Hallows. That very same day I wrote this. I _think_ it was originally meant to be a oneshot, but it spun out of control. You tell me how it turned out.**

**I'll be updating this weekly. It will end up being a pretty long fic. I already have a good deal of it written.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Harry Potter is JK Rowling's. I'm not making any money off this. (One disclaimer for the whole fic should suffice.) The bits in italics in this chapter were lifted directly from the book.

**Warnings:** Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. Mind the rating for later chapters.

**Summary:** After the battle, Draco has to deal with the fact that he saved Harry's life. Harry wants to know why he did it, but Draco himself doesn't know.

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><p><span><strong>A Flare of Hope<strong>

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><p>It was all over. Harry Potter was dead.<p>

It seemed so sudden and yet, at the same time, Draco felt as though his entire existence had been building up to this single moment in time when – it seemed – everything was about to change. He had been right, then, when he had taken the Dark Mark. He had been right, only a short while ago, when he had crossed over from the students' side to the Dark Lord's. He had chosen the winning side. One only had to look at the looks of despair on Potter's friends' faces, the tears that made their way through the blood and grime covering their cheeks, to understand that. The term _Mudblood_, he thought dispassionately as he looked at Granger, had never been more appropriate.

There was more than just despair on Granger's face. Disbelief and denial were clear in her eyes, and the will to _fight_, to keep on fighting with everything she had, to die if she had do, for a cause that was now hopeless. That was something Draco couldn't understand, a completely alien idea for him. It wasn't just her, either; a whole crowd of students and teachers were screaming, yelling, refusing to believe that everything was over, shouting out their defiance. Their voices met and mingled in a terrible, haunting wave of noise, just barely intelligible, and Draco sank back into the shadow cast by the Castle and watched as a sort of collective hysteria took over. He felt oddly detached. His mother's hand on his arm was all that really mattered, her death grip around his wrist as she watched, her face drawn and pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She seemed to fear something, but what? It was over. And they had... they had won.

Whatever Draco had imagined victory would feel like, it wasn't this.

A flash of light erupted as the Dark Lord brought his wand down in a sharp movement. There was a loud bang, and silence fell over the crowd again.

"_He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,_" the Dark Lord said, and that was a lie, everyone knew it was a lie – even _Draco_ knew. "_Killed while trying to save himself –_"

Someone broke free of the silencing charm and rushed forward. In the deathly silence of the crowd, the word he shouted rang out with a cold clarity.

"Lies!" Longbottom screamed as he headed towards the Dark Lord, his wand raised, but it was foolish, it was suicidal, and with another flash of light from the Dark Lord's wand the Gryffindor fell to the ground.

A terrible, cold laugh filled the air, and the Dark Lord started to speak, but Draco didn't listen, _wouldn't_ listen to that horrible, cruel voice. Instead he just watched as Longbottom set his jaw and painstakingly pulled himself to his feet again, obviously injured, swaying unsteadily from side to side, Disarmed and defenseless. His hands curled into fists at his sides and he was talking back to the Dark Lord, but then Draco grew tired of watching, too, because it was all so _pointless_, it could all end only one way. He turned his gaze to Potter's body and retreated into his thoughts. The Boy-Who-Lived lay on his side in the grass at the feet of the half-giant, his eyes closed, his glasses lopsided, the scar on his forehead hidden by his hair, his cheek pressed into the ground.

What did it mean to him, that Potter was dead? It meant the Dark Lord had won. It meant that nothing, now, would be able to change the path he had chosen. It meant that more blood would be shed and more lives lost in the hours to come, but with the hope beaten out of the resistors, soon, everything would really be over.

It meant that the boy Draco had spent six school years harrassing no longer existed. It meant Draco would never get another chance to catch the Snitch before Potter. It meant that the one who had saved his life in the Room of Requirement was dead. It meant Potter had _lost_, and Draco realised with a jolt that while he had never been able to imagine a world in which the Dark Lord didn't win, it had also seemed inconceivable that Potter would actually _lose_. He, like the others, had been clinging to a tiny, ridiculous hope that he hadn't even known was there until it vanished.

Suddenly there was chaos, and Draco was ripped away from his thoughts as his mother pulled him roughly to her.

"Let's leave," she said, her voice rushed and panicked, but Draco didn't reply.

Potter's body was gone.

Trampled? No, no one would have done that. He had... disappeared. And there were more fighters now, suddenly, and the giants, and centaurs, and screams all around Draco. Things happened so fast they seemed to be a blur of motion and noise around him, and he stood, frozen in place, unable to process things fully, fear settling in his gut. The situation had gone from a won battle to a renewed fight and Draco didn't know _why_, didn't know what could have happened to change things so brutally.

Someone slammed into him from behind, and his mother let go of him, and then he was caught in the flow of wizards retreating into the Castle, fleeing from the giants. He was pushed forward, unwilling, and craned his neck to catch one last glimpse of his parents; they were together, looking around in panic, looking for _him_, he realised. _"I'm here,"_ he wanted to shout, but the whirl of the crowd caught him again and he was spun up the front steps and into the Castle.

It was all Draco could do to stay on his feet. Behind him, someone stumbled, then fell to his knees; he was quickly trampled by the crowd. Draco felt sick and a renewed determination to _stay alive_ kept him on his feet. He ducked his head, not wanting to be recognised – but no one was fighting here. The crowd was a mass of Death Eaters and defenders of Hogwarts alike, and it would have been suicide to even try to pull out a wand – especially a wand Draco didn't trust he had full control over. He had taken it from Goyle after his mother's had been destroyed in the Room of Requirement.

The rush steadied somewhat a few feet inside the Castle, then disappeared almost completely as people realised who they were and where they were. The fighting started again, but the students were fighting a lost battle; their heart wasn't in it anymore, and he saw three of them fall in as many minutes. He shielded himself as best as he could and located a small trickle of people stubbornly heading for the Great Hall, weaving through curses and Death Eaters, ducking spells and falling rubble. He followed them, scarcely knowing why, and knew it was a bad idea as soon as he stepped inside the hall, because it was crowded, packed with people cursing and protecting each other, and right in the middle of it stood Voldemort, fighting – and winning against – Shacklebolt, Slughorn, and McGonagall. But there was no way to back out now, for more people still spilt into the Great Hall, eager to fight, eager to see this thing end, however it might.

Draco saw his aunt die.

He backed up against the wall, where hundreds of people were already lined up, and watched, his attention at once diverted from the Dark Lord's battle to the one his aunt fought, first against Lovegood, the Weaslette, and Granger – Granger whose cheeks were still streaked with tears –, then against the Weaslette's mother, fierce and furious, her wand slashing through the air with a fiery determination. He watched as Bellatrix taunted her opponent, watched as a horrific, insane laugh burst from her lips, and watched as Mrs Weasley cast a single curse that struck her cleanly in the chest.

He watched as she collapsed.

He watched, and felt so surprised, so numb, that he might have missed the most important thing of all, had not the Dark Lord given a terrible scream, immediately drawing Draco's attention back to him. His wand was pointed at Mrs Weasley, and she was going to die, and then... and then, as if out of nowhere, a voice rose that made the Dark Lord freeze.

"I'm here, Riddle!" the person shouted, loud enough to be clearly heard.

And then, in the middle of the hall, Potter appeared out of nowhere.

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><p>Draco couldn't say what he felt when he saw Potter standing. Alive. Somewhere, in the distance, a girl screamed. A flare of hope, relief, <em>love<em> lit up the faces of every ally Potter had.

"HE'S ALIVE!" a girl's voice screamed. "Harry is alive!"

Others picked up the cry and the news echoed throughout the hall. A loud cheer rose and fell within the same second as the Dark Lord and Potter locked gazes. The air crackled with tension between them, and the Great Hall was completely silent.

_"I don't want anyone else to try to help,"_ Potter said, not taking his eyes off the Dark Lord as they began to circle each other. _"It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."_

Draco saw Potter reach into the pocket of his robes, then freeze for a second. The blood drained from his face as he looked up at the Dark Lord, and for the first time, Draco saw fear etched into the Boy-Who-Lived's expression.

Potter had lost his wand.

Someone, beside Draco, whispered, "Oh my god." But Potter straightened again and resumed his act of bravado before most people could understand; his eyes darted left and right nervously, but he started circling the Dark Lord again as though nothing had happened. Voldemort didn't notice, he was, like everyone, stunned by the mere fact that Potter was still alive. They exchanged more words, and though the conversation dragged on as though Potter were desperately biding for time, it seemed like the Dark Lord wanted answers. Why else would he let Potter attack and insult him, again and again, with his words, when he could just kill him?

_"I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle," _Potter said tauntingly. _"I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"_

He was walking the line between distracting taunts and actual provocation that would force the Dark Lord to attack. The tantalising thought that Potter might know something kept him from killing the boy on the spot. And Potter took advantage of that, played with it, keeping Voldemort alert and attentive. He went on, dragging the conversation on, and all the while his eyes kept flicking back to the crowd, looking for something or someone that could help. But there was no one, because he had told them not to interfere, and because hardly anyone had realised something was wrong; all were listening with rapt attention; no one wanted to step up between Voldemort and his prey.

Potter was going to die. That much Draco was absolutely sure of. How could he not? He was wandless, unprotected, vulnerable. And yet he stood his ground, baiting, _taunting_ the Dark Lord with his words. Wandless. It went against everything Draco believed in. It was completely stupid. It was suicidal. And yet for a brief moment, Draco admired Harry Potter.

_"He was cleverer than you. A better wizard, a better man."_

Someone gasped in the crowd; a light murmur of approval followed.

_"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"_

_"You thought you did,"_ Potter said, meeting the Dark Lord's eyes once more, _"but you were wrong."_

That was when it happened. Potter seemed to realise something; he stood up taller, his eyes locked onto Voldemort's and did not leave them again. There was no slumping of shoulders or admittance of defeat; Potter had just realised and accepted that there was no way out. He was going to die. His replies became quicker, more reckless; he was driving the Dark Lord towards the moment they all knew was coming.

And then they mentioned the Elder Wand, and a wry smile appeared on Potter's lips, a smile that said, _I'm about to die for the most stupid reason ever_. But the light in him hadn't yet been extinguished.

_"Try for some remorse..."_

This time it was Draco who gasped, and stepped back in shock; he bumped into the girl standing behind him, who gave him a filthy look before returning her attention to Potter. Who was still alive, pale and trembling but _alive_, miraculously still alive after what he had just said. He dove ahead, the words pouring mercilessly out of him, about Dumbledore, and Snape, and the Elder Wand, and Ollivander – Ollivander who had been locked up at Malfoy Manor –, and Dumbledore's _death_, until the sentence that made Draco feel light-headed and slightly ill.

_"… the Elder Wand recognised a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will..."_

No. It couldn't be.

_"… never realising exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."_

Gods, no.

_"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."_

It took all of three seconds for Draco to digest what this meant. Not that he had been the master of the Elder Wand – like something like that _mattered_ anymore –, but that Potter had come very close to beating the Dark Lord. Over a wand. If he had had a wand in his hand, right now, he would have been able to face off anything the Dark Lord had to throw at him. Draco stared, stunned, at Potter's empty hands.

Voldemort had finally heard enough, or had listened to everything he wanted to know, or simply didn't care anymore; in any case, he stopped circling abruptly. Across from him, Potter also grew still, his entire body taut with apprehension. The Dark Lord raised his wand.

"It does not matter," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "None of it matters, Potter. You are going to die today."

Potter said nothing. There was nothing more to say. He stood, looking up at the Dark Lord without hesitation. The crowd shifted and stirred behind Draco as they realised what was going to happen.

"Why doesn't he take out his wand?" someone whispered, but they were quickly shushed by the rest of the crowd who seemed to have _faith_ in Potter.

Then Potter dropped his gaze and looked to the side. Why exactly he did it, Draco didn't know, but he did, his eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face, maybe someone that would bring comfort to him in the final moment...

He locked gazes with Draco.

In that instant, Draco lost control. A strange, inexplicable panic ripped through him and his body acted of its own accord. The Dark Lord brought his wand down, his mouth opening to scream out a curse, and Draco, all the while thinking _No no no_, broke away from the crowd and threw himself forward. Voldemort froze.

"POTTER!" someone screamed, and then Draco realised it was him.

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, his mother rushing through the crowd toward him, eyes wide with fear, screaming "Draco, Draco!", and he realised she had thought he was dead, and though it hurt, he turned away from her; she wouldn't make it in time anyway.

In a stupid, desperate gesture, he threw Goyle's wand at Potter.

Potter looked up at the arch it traced through the air, stunned, then down again, and for an infinitely short moment, their eyes met again. In that instant, Draco saw something in those eyes, something deep and powerful he couldn't begin to understand. Then the moment was over, and Potter's hand rose to pluck the wand out of the air with the easy skill of a Seeker. And suddenly Draco was the vulnerable one, the wandless one.

"You always were spineless, Draco," Voldemort remarked in that awful, cold voice, but Draco wasn't the one who held his attention at the moment; he turned his gaze back to Potter. "I can deal with him later, to take true possession of the Elder Wand. You came to me without a _wand_, Potter? Did you truly think you could defeat me?"

"I do now," Potter said, gripping the wand between his fingers very tightly. "It's over, Riddle. That wand in your hand will be useless against this one, because Malfoy isn't the master of the Elder Wand anymore. I beat you to it. I Disarmed him weeks ago. _I_ am the true master of the Elder Wand."

Something shifted in the air between them; the dark enchanted sky of the ceiling above them was suddenly streaked with a flash of red as the first rays of the rising sun appeared, and Draco shielded his eyes with his hand, blinded for a moment. Two simultaneous screams rose and overlapped:

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

There was another flash of light, but it wasn't the sun this time, it was the two spells shooting from their respective wands and colliding in a burst of golden flames. The Dark Lord's wand flew out of his hand, arching through the air towards Potter, who caught it just as he had caught the one Draco had thrown at him, and the Dark Lord himself collapsed, and then there was silence.

Dead silence.


	2. And We Give Ourselves Up

**The first three chapters, posted together, are enticement. If you like them, don't forget to come back next week for the next chapters!**

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><p><span><strong>And We Give Ourselves Up<strong>

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><p>Pain was all Draco was aware of. The sharp, sudden bite of pain that shot up his left arm, causing him to gasp and clutch at his wrist. He looked down at the Dark Mark Voldemort himself had imprinted into his flesh. It was still there, still black and horrible. It would always be there.<p>

The cold silence of death erupted into a loud cheer, a victorious cry of delight and pure, undiluted _ecstasy_, and then Potter was submerged in a sea of friends and allies, clapping him on the back, reaching out to touch him, hugging each other, crying, screaming, laughing, the emotions too overwhelming for intelligible words. Draco watched them for a minute, stock-still, unable to process what had just happened. The most shocking thing wasn't even the Dark Lord's death. It was what he, Draco, had done. Not just saved Potter's life, but risked his _own_ to save another's. It was something so completely un-Slytherin, so ridiculously reckless, that Draco didn't understand it. He didn't know what had driven him to the act. One minute he had been watching on dispassionately, knowing and acknowledging that Potter was about to die, and then Potter had looked at him, almost beseechingly, and he had – he had practically thrown himself between Potter and the Dark Lord. Stunned, he looked down at his hands, the hands that had thrown Goyle's wand. What had he been _thinking_?

A hand wrapped itself around his forearm gently, and he looked up into his mother's wide, worried eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't have let you go – oh, Draco, I thought we'd lost you. And when you –"

"Narcissa." His father's tone was urgent. "Please..."

"I know," Narcissa said, blowing out a small sigh. "Come, Draco. We have no reason to stay here anymore."

He looked at her, then at his father beside her. Both looked battle-worn and frightened, but he detected something else there, something like relief, and the same shell-shocked expression he knew he probably had. With the Dark Lord's death, it was as though a part of their life had died with him, the part that was filled with terror and blood and violence. That page was turned, and behind it lay an equally terrifying page of reprisals, prison, judgement and punishment.

"Let's go home, Draco," his father said, and his tone was so _tired_ it frightened Draco. All the fight had gone out of him.

"But –" he began, then stopped.

Going home would serve nothing, he wanted to say. If anyone wanted to go after them, they would find them. But his parents already knew that, and it seemed pointless to say the words out loud.

"Yes, let's go home," he said instead, sliding his hand into his mother's.

It was easy to slip out of the Great Hall, then out onto the grounds. No one paid attention to the family trying to discreetly flee from the Castle, because they were all simultaneously too giddy from the victory and too beaten down by the deaths to notice. Around them, other families reunited, hugging each other and crying tears of both relief and sadness, and friends sought out friends and others frantically looked for their loved ones. The grief Draco witnessed made him feel strange, almost guilty somehow that he still had his family. Then a thought struck him, and he looked up at his mother. Tears welled up in her eyes and snaked, unchecked, down her cheeks; Narcissa had lost a sister in the Battle, and she wasn't even going to see her body, she wasn't going to take the opportunity to say good-bye.

They broke into a run as soon as they were outside the Castle, desperate to leave the grounds. Draco could remember a time when Hogwarts had been like a home to him, a place he liked and looked forward to going back to. Now he was running from it as though it were the most nightmarish place he could imagine, and in a way, it was. He still felt numb from the unexpected _pain_ of losing Crabbe, from having narrowly evaded death three times in the last few hours, from the shock of seeing the Dark Lord die, from his own actions, but beneath that lay a cold, intense disgust for everything he had seen – the blood, the fear, the despair, the deaths.

It was Lucius who Apparated, taking his wife and son with him, and they reappeared in the entrance hall of their home. Draco staggered forward, unbalanced, and caught himself against the wall. Images of the night's events flashed before his eyes.

"Draco..." His father's voice was quiet and uncertain. "How are you feeling?"

"I'll be all right," he said, more to reassure his parents than anything else.

His mother threw him a worried glance. "Are you sure –"

"I'm fine."

Narcissa nodded. She began pacing across the hall with her wand out, muttering under her breath, reworking the wards around Malfoy Manor. Nearly all the Death Eaters had had access to their home, but now that everything was over, they didn't want a surprise visit from one of them. Draco watched, his mind working slowly, still trying to digest what had happened.

"Do you think he's really –" he began, then stopped.

"I don't know, Draco," his father replied. "I don't know."

Draco cut his eyes to him. There was none of the usual trembling fear in his father's tone when he mentioned the Dark Lord, only honest uncertainty.

"You felt it, too. The Mark. But I don't know what it means. He's been dead before."

A shiver ran up Draco's spine at the thought.

"What if they come after us?" he asked next. "Mother and I don't have a wand, and yours..."

His father twirled a wand between his fingers, a wand he had had made by Ollivander, who had been locked in their cellar. His original wand had been destroyed while in the Dark Lord's possession, and the new one didn't work half as well for him. If Ollivander hadn't been too proud to make a wand that was of less than the best quality, Draco would seriously have thought he had intentionally given Lucius a weak one.

"Even if you had your wands," his father said, "and I mine, we wouldn't fight. There's no reason to fight anymore, if the Dark Lord is gone. If they come after us, then we... we give ourselves up."

Draco sucked in a breath. "But we –"

"I'm sorry, Draco. It's over."

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><p>They waited in the sitting room, huddled together in a desperate embrace. His parents' arms were wrapped around him tightly, and warmth and love radiated from them. Draco didn't think they had ever acted more like a family than they did at that moment as they awaited their sentence. His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it, rapid and terrified, and he didn't say a word. None of them did. There were so many things he could have said, <em>should<em> have said – that he was so glad his parents were both still alive, that he loved them more than he'd realised, that he was sorry for all the things he had never apologised for, all those pointless, insignificant things like brushing off his mother's owls at Hogwarts –, but the words stuck in his throat and he said nothing.

At last – had it been minutes, hours, days? – the sentence came. The iron grate in front of the fireplace alerted them; it was linked to the front gate. A face appeared in the dull metal and it spoke.

"There are visitors at the gate."

Narcissa let out a very soft sigh and broke away from her son, rising to her feet. "How many?"

"Five wizards, sent by the Ministry."

"Ask for their names," Lucius ordered, but his wife waved a hand to silence him.

"Let them in," she said, sounding resigned.

The next minute and a half was excruciatingly long. They stood and waited in silence for the men to make their way through the grounds, up the front steps, inside the entrance hall, and down the corridor to the sitting room. Finally the footsteps stopped just outside the door, and Draco's heart skipped a beat. The handle turned down slowly, and then the door was knocked open roughly and the five men stormed it, wands out and pointed at the Malfoys.

_"Expelliarmus!" _

Only one wand flew across the room into the hands of the Ministry official, who frowned.

"_Incarce –_"

"There's no need for that," Lucius said coolly, interrupting him mid-spell. "We _let_ you come in. We're unarmed. We're not going to oppose any resistance."

One of the men sneered at him. "I'd like to see you try."

He stepped forward, wand out, and spun Lucius around, deliberately delivering a sharp knock between his shoulder blades before gleefully snapping a pair of silver magicuffs around his wrists behind his back.

"Not so proud now, are you, Malfoy?"

Lucius' cheek was pressed into the hard stone wall, his lips pressed together tightly in anger – but he said nothing. That was when Draco realised just how much everything had changed. Was going to change.

The other men were closing in on Draco and his mother. Draco thought he vaguely recognised one or two of them as having come to the Manor to talk amicably* about Ministry business with Lucius. From the stricken look on his mother's face, he was right. Narcissa spread her hands out in front of her to show she was unarmed, and one of the wizards moved forward and took hold of her.

"Turn around," he said, his expression almost apologetic.

She did, and put her arms behind her back without him having to ask her to. She held her head high and proud to preserve some dignity, but Draco could see her hands were trembling. The two remaining men tried to approach him, their expressions so unpleasant he instinctively backed away. He caught his mother's pleading gaze and stopped, closed his eyes, and raised his hands in surrender.

One of the men caught him by the collar of his robes, turned him around, and slammed him roughly into the wall. Draco let out a hiss of pain, but didn't stop the other man from fixing the cuffs on to his wrists. They were too tight and bit into his flesh painfully.

"Where's your wand?" the man asked.

"Don't have one anymore," he said bitterly.

Potter had taken his real wand, and apparently lost it. His mother's had been destroyed by Fiendfyre. And the one he had been using – Goyle's – was now in Potter's hands.

The men shot him an incredulous look, which for some reason he found infuriating. But he was used to people not trusting him. Another quick check with _Expelliarmus_ told them he was telling the truth, and they scowled as though disappointed that he hadn't lied. _What kind of wizard doesn't have a _wand_?_

"Doesn't matter," said the first man, the one who had Disarmed Lucius. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Narcissa asked as they were led out of the room.

"_We_'re going to drop you off at the Ministry. Then _you_'ll be carted off to Azkaban."

Narcissa lost all her composure then. The blood drained from her face and she let out a small cry of anguish, her mouth dropping open into a perfect 'O'. Her husband stumbled on the steps outside and nearly fell. Draco felt a shroud of darkness fall over him as he remembered the icy feeling the presence of Dementors on the train in his third year had imparted. Azkaban? The numb feeling was back, clouding the horror he tried to keep at bay. He'd seen what Azkaban could do to people. He'd seen what it had done to his aunt, taking her fervent loyalty and twisting it into sick madness. Dementors fed on your happy memories, forcing you to relive your worst memories... what _were_ his worst memories? He had managed to amass a decent amount of unpleasant memories over the years, especially these past two years. Blood, death, torture; fear, pain, horror. It was hard to pick out the bad from the worst.

The men left them at the Ministry, as they had said they would, but not before talking a great deal with other employees that had been waiting for them. Draco learnt they weren't Aurors or any sort of apprehension agents, just Ministry employees who probably worked desk jobs most of the time. The Ministry was being drastically reorganised – or maybe that was _dis_organised. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been put in charge temporarily and was struggling to make sense of the situation. There had already been a massive release of innocents from Azkaban. Most Aurors and Hit Wizards were either at Hogwarts or chasing after fugitives. Shacklebolt sure was a fast worker. The Battle had only been over for a couple hours.

Draco listened to the banter between the Ministry employees, who seemed delighted by the situation and not at all concerned by the family that was awaiting their sentence. His shoulders hurt from his arms being held behind his back by the cuffs for too long, and the bindings were so tight around his wrists he could barely feel his fingers anymore.

At last the five employees who had apprehended them stopped talking and laughing and _left_. It was someone else who took over, a tall, broad-shouldered man with glittering black eyes.

"Owen Jane," he introduced himself. "Governor of the wizarding prison of Azkaban, where you'll be held until your trial."

Draco felt himself blanch. The soreness in his shoulders intensified and a flash of sharp-edged fear tore through him. _Azkaban._ Realisation struck, and this time, the comforting numbness didn't come. He almost wished for it, because it would have taken the pain away. It would have taken the fear away.

Death was better than Azkaban.

"Do you know why you have been arrested?" the governor said.

Lucius nodded curtly. None of them said a word.

"Then we go."

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><p>Azkaban was more than intimidating. It was terrifying. The prison loomed before them, dark and ominous. Draco had never seen it before, or maybe he had, in a photograph in a newspaper. He wasn't sure anymore. The building was narrow, or maybe it only looked that way because of its height. It looked impossibly tall to Draco, who had to tilt his head way back to look, and even then he didn't think he had glimpsed the top of it, which disappeared above the clouds. The air around it was thick and heavy, making it difficult to breathe, difficult for Draco's chest to rise and fall. He thought he caught a glimpse of a Dementor swooping down from the sky to the roof of the prison, followed by a scream, and he stopped in his tracks, only to be prodded in the back by Owen Jane. He looked back at the governor and was impressed to see the man looked utterly cool and collected, as though the Dementors – they <em>had<em> to be the reason the atmosphere felt this strange – had no effect on him. Owen Jane stared straight ahead, his jaw set. Draco's parents hadn't uttered a word since they had left the Ministry. What was there to say?

The governor led them inside the prison. Draco saw his mother turn her head at the last second for one last glimpse of the sky, the ugly, darkened sky, and then there was darkness, lit only by a few, rare torches. They were still shackled, and Draco's shoulders really ached by now, but it was nothing compared to the pressure on his chest that was increasing by the minute; it was even worse now that they were inside. He felt as though he might suffocate, the air was just _unbreathable_. Even though his breathing was hindered and the prison was poorly lit, he felt very alert. The numbness had definitely left him, and every visual detail sprang out at him sharply. The stones on the floor, the strong, cold iron of the barred doors to the cells, and the faces, all the _faces_. The faces of the wizards and witches already imprisoned, and who had been for weeks, or months, or years, long enough to forget how long it had been exactly. Their faces were drawn and gaunt, their eyes either dull or wide with madness, and only very few of them looked up when the Malfoys walked in front of their cells. Draco met one man's gaze and instantly wished he hadn't. Fear. Hatred. Infinite guilt. It was a glimpse of what he was about to live.

Thankfully, it was a very short walk until the governor stopped in front of a cell. The wooden sign above the door read, _Cell 216_. It was small and empty. The door was open.

Owen Jane nodded. "In."

Draco stepped in first, followed by his parents, and then the governor, who unlocked their cuffs. Draco felt a wave of physical relief and shrugged his shoulders, trying to ease the ache away, but it didn't last long. The governor left and closed the door behind him, and as soon as the door was locked, something pushed Draco down to his knees. It was as though his breath had been knocked out. The pressure around his heart tripled and a scream filled his ears, the scream of someone he had seen die. Draco realised that he hadn't even begun to feel the extent of the Dementors' influence here. The governor had kept them at bay, but now that he was gone, they were the Dementors' prey.

Narcissa broke first, maybe because she had more happy memories than Lucius and the Dementors had sensed that and decided to target her first. She curled up into a ball in a corner of the cell and began shaking uncontrollably, tears running down her cheeks, an expression of absolute terror on her face. Lucius tore himself away from his own memories to try to talk to her, but nothing he said would get through to her. She just shook her head and screwed her eyes shut, clamping her hands over her ears as though to block out all sound.

"No, no, _no_..." she sobbed.

Draco watched. He wanted to reach out to her, but she was beyond reaching out to. As soon as the Dementors fully turned on him, he would be, too. Already he could feel the horrific atmosphere of the place, a place swarmed with the soul-suckers, weighing on his shoulders and heart. It was only a matter of minutes before he would curl up in a corner, to, his eyes closed in an attempt to avoid his worst memories. At the moment, only one thought ran through his mind, again and again. A thought that scared him almost as much as the Dementors did. Would his mother become like Aunt Bellatrix?

Draco closed his eyes and wondered how he was going to stay sane.


	3. You Fade Away Before My Eyes

**You Fade Away Before my Eyes**

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><p>Dementors fed on your happiest memories, which meant you were left with only the worst.<p>

Draco hadn't known what exactly _the worst_ would turn out to be, but now that he did, he wished he'd never found out. As he watched, again and again, as his mother was tortured before his own eyes, he wondered how he'd ever doubted this was the worst ever. He had felt that sharp tug of fear that the curse would be too much, that his mother would lose her sanity – because that had always been his fear, ever since he'd realised his aunt was completely crazed. Between that memory and the one of taking the Dark Mark, there could be no respite, no happiness to breach the wall of darkness that surrounded his mind. The Dementors had taken laughter, joy, amusement, and contentment away from him, but it didn't leave him feeling numb. Instead, everything he had left – pain, hatred, horror – was clear, razor-sharp, and overwhelmingly _present_.

He had found no way to avoid the Dementors, but sometimes he could avoid the pain by focusing on a certain memory. A very recent memory that was anything but happy, so the Dementors couldn't feed on it. It was probably too confusing, even for them. Draco relived his saving Potter's life, over and over again, concentrated on the memory. A thought rang through his head, a question. _Why? Why? Why?_ The thought did not help him keep his sanity – he was certain it would eventually drive him insane –, but it helped him hold on to something as the Dementors threatened to take everything else away from him. Sometimes, he had brief flashes of lucidity, in which he would just watch his parents quietly and wonder how far gone they were. It was impossible to tell if, somewhere deep within their minds, they were still his parents, or if they had left. The Dementors ate at their minds just like they ate at his, and it only made it worse that he had to witness it.

Three weeks and two or three or four days – he'd lost count twice – passed before something strange happened. On the outside, a law was passed. The Dementors left Azkaban. And above, the clouds parted over the prison, allowing light to pass through the barred windows, flooding the cells.

Strangely enough, the atmosphere didn't lighten immediately. You could still hear the awful moans of the prisoners echoing from the next cells, prisoners who had been there for years, prisoners who hardly noticed the Dementors had left and would relive _those memories_ forever. But in Cell 216, the relief was immediate. Draco saw his parents stir, then rouse themselves as though waking up from a deep, deep sleep, and despite the look in theirs eyes that said they'd seen terrible things, he knew there was still something in there. It was hidden so deep it would take a long time to find it, but it was there. He had to hold on to that hope. _Hope._ Another thing the Dementors had almost taken away forever.

He asked one of the new guards how long they had been imprisoned and was surprised at how cracked, how raw his voice came out, as though he hadn't spoken in years. Or maybe as though he had been screaming for days.

"I don't know," the guard said, looking annoyed. "I don't know the bloody record of all you criminals by heart. I only started here today. And I'm not allowed to speak to you."

Draco sank back into his cell, the cell he shared with the two huddled, silent shapes that used to be his parents. Later, the guard returned, looking at him with something like pity – _Pity_, Draco thought, disgusted –, and said,

"Seventeen days."

Draco didn't believe him at first.

"Your trial is in one week. Well, eight days, actually," the guard corrected himself, as though it mattered, except it didn't, because Draco obviously didn't know what time was anymore.

Eight days? What did that mean? Eight more excruciating days as he watched his parents fade away before his own eyes.

But that wasn't what happened. He had forgotten the Dementors left.

Instead what happened was that his parents slowly came back to him. He had known they had seen worse things than he had, but the effect the Dementors had had on them had been the first sign he'd ever received that those things had affected them profoundly. Growing up, he'd always thought of his father as solid and cold. His mother had never wanted to appear weak in front of her son. But the Dementors and prison meals had taken that away, and his parents were weak and fragile and even – but he repressed the thought every time it threatened to surge forth – slightly unstable. Slowly, though, the absence of the Dementors and Draco talking to them was bringing them back.

That wasn't the only thing that happened. As the trial grew nearer, they received a few visits from employees at the Ministry. Those people tried to get him to agree to testify against his own parents. He refused, quick as a whip. That was never going to happen. He'd sign anything, he'd agree to anything to get out of here, but not that. Never that. They tried to turn his parents against each other, but that didn't work, either. All it did was make his mother cry.

They had never been as solidly united a family as they were now.

Days came and went, clearer now that the Dementors had left. Draco had regained the notion of time and was awake during the day and asleep at night so he could keep track of the days. The guard didn't become any warmer, but he didn't seem to mind giving Draco the time, which was something, at least. Though they never had a conversation, it comforted Draco to hear the voice of someone completely sane, if bored. His parents hardly ever spoke.

And they were hardly completely sane.

Then one day the guard came over and said, "It's today." He locked the magicuffs back on – Draco winced – and led them out of Cell 216. "With a little luck," he said with unexpected sympathy in his tone, "you won't ever see the place again."

Draco shot him an incredulous look that the guard didn't seem to catch. Of course there was nothing Draco wanted more than to never see Azkaban again, but what was the likeliness of _that_? Below zero, definitely. Whatever charges the Wizengamot had come up with, Draco knew his family was guilty of them. Murder, torture, possession of Dark Artefacts, use of the Dark Arts to cause harm, use of Unforgivable Curses... There was, simply put, no way they could avoid a life sentence in Azkaban. Maybe they would be lenient with Draco, because he was young, and only lock him up for ten or fifteen years; but then what? There was no life for him out there anymore. There was no place for Death Eaters in the wizarding world anymore. Besides, after ten years in Azkaban – even without the Dementors –, he wasn't sure he'd still be alive.

When they stepped out into the fresh outside air, it was like being a newborn taking in its first breath of air. Draco gasped as the smell of the sea hit him, fresh and salty and _alive_, and he stopped in his tracks. He tilted his head back and just looked, for a moment, at the blue sky. It was a beautiful day outside, sunny enough to make him squint. Azkaban struck a contrasting figure against the sky, dark and gloomy, but he tried not to see it. He watched the flock of birds soaring across the sky and the waves crashing against the island. He felt how the wind whipped at his face and how the sun warmed his cheeks. Little things. Insignificant things. Things that might have even, one day, irritated him. They were beautiful to him now.

"Being late wouldn't make a good impression on the Wizengamot," the guard said, bringing him back to the reality of the moment.

He wasn't here to admire the view. He was here because he was going to face the Wizengamot. He nodded curtly and followed the guard, along with his parents, to a smaller building on the side that housed the new, human (and a few not-so-human) guards of Azkaban. It was almost painful to let the door close behind them, blocking out the sunlight. Draco eyed the windows enviously, then returned his attention to the guard. He wasn't old, but a good deal older than Draco. Draco wondered what his name was, whether he had a girlfriend or a wife, or maybe children, and why he had taken this job. Did it pay well? Did he want to personally make sure the people the Ministry had locked up didn't get out?

"You know what to do," the guard said, nodding at the family.

Draco blinked, puzzled. Did they? Did _he_? He looked around. They had come here from the Ministry, he was sure. But as for _how_... He searched his memory and came up blank. It scared him. He should know. He should _remember_. But the past few weeks at Azkaban were fresh in his mind, a whirlwind of terror and horror and screams and pain, and the moments preceding that were a blur, as though nothing mattered right up until the moment he had seen the prison looming before him and felt the icy presence of the Dementors. Had Azkaban taken anything else? Had his memory been altered by the time he had spent here?

The guard held out a large metal hoop so that it was parallel to the ground. The memories sharpened, and Draco remembered that it was a Portkey, the same kind that had brought them here the first time. He and his parents shuffled into place, their backs to the ring, their shoulders touching, and their fingers curled around the ring behind their backs. The cuffs made this the only possible position.

"Due to leave in fifty seconds," the guard told them. "There's someone waiting for you on the other side, of course. Possibly Aurors, I don't know. Try not to react when they come at you or they'll be as rough as they can."  
>Draco stared at him, trying to decide whether that was a joke. Their wrists were bound. What were they supposed to do, run? They wouldn't get far, considering they were headed for the <em>Ministry<em>. Where they'd be surrounded by people with _wands_. They'd be lucky if they went two steps before being stopped. Painfully.

Neither Draco nor his parents reacted to what the guard had said, though he was still thinking about it when the fifty seconds were up and the familiar tug of the Portkey began in his belly. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts go, because he knew they would just make his head spin. Draco had always been Portkey-sensitive, to the point of vomiting a couple of times, though it had faded somewhat in recent years. He felt a sickening discomfort now as the Portkey roughly pulled them to their destination, making his stomach heave. He stumbled and let go of the cold metal ring as soon as they reached the Ministry. Two men caught him by the arms and kept him on his feet.

"Draco Malfoy?"

He nodded, knowing the man already knew, anyway. Behind him, his parents were also taken hold of. Draco allowed the men to steer him through a dark corridor, hardly aware of his surroundings. He guessed they were underground, but couldn't have said for sure. He still felt dizzy and queasy. He wasn't sure whether it was just the Portkey, or his nerves. _Nerves_. What did he have to be anxious about? It wasn't like he didn't already know the verdict. There was no way they would be declared _innocent_. The trial was a joke, just something to make the Ministry feel justified and self-righteous. No, Draco wasn't worried about being judged. He was scared of facing the witnesses.

Witnesses. People who would look him right in the eye and describe what he had done to them, or what they had seen him do, or what he had told them he'd done – _bragged_ about doing. The thought made him feel sicker than the Portkey.

Some of the dizziness faded as he walked, still surrounded by the two Ministry employees. They were both taller and stronger than him, and their hold on his shoulders was uncomfortably tight. They held their wands at the ready, as though there was any way he could escape. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Definitely underground; the stone floor sloped downwards somewhat and the hallway was dark and cold, lit only by a few torches in brackets. Draco raised his head to get a better look at the wooden doors which were placed at regular intervals on the walls. He had come to the Ministry with his father a few times, but he had never been here. He glanced at his father, whose mouth was set in a thin hard line. Obviously, _he_ knew the place.

The Ministry officials pulled him to a stop in front of one of the doors, identical to the others. Above the door, Draco could read the words _Courtroom Ten_. He shivered.

"You wait here," one of the men said. "Your father goes in first, then your mother, and you last."

Draco started. "We'll be judged separately?"

"Heard," the man corrected. "You'll be _heard_ separately, and not for the exact same crimes. Chances are the verdict will be the same for all three of you, though." He nodded at the closed door. "The Wizengamot has already arrived. They're waiting. Your parents will go in, but you won't see them coming out. There's another door that leads out of the courtroom. The witnesses will come in through that, so they don't encounter you outside of the courtroom. Your parents will leave the room through that door. They won't witness your trial."

Draco wondered what difference that was supposed to make.

As the man had said, Lucius went first. It seemed to last hours, and as much as Draco strained to hear, he couldn't make out anything more than raised voices, not clear words. Then Narcissa disappeared into the room, and then it was Draco's turn. The first person he saw as he entered the courtroom was someone he had seen in his memories time and time again over the past few weeks, someone he hadn't expected to find here, someone who looked directly into his eyes when he entered and held his gaze firmly. In retrospect, Draco would realise he should have expected his presence.

Harry Potter stared at him, and in his green eyes Draco read the question he knew his own expression had to be reflecting.

_Why?_


	4. In Your Defence

**As much as I love Draco's POV, this chapter marks the first shift to Harry's. I'll be switching POVs between the two of them often in this fic.**

**Thank you for reading!**

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><p><span><strong>In Your Defence<strong>

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><p>There was no mistaking the look in Malfoy's widened eyes. It was fear, surprise, and distaste all rolled into one. Harry thought he could understand the surprise – this was the <em>right<em> thing to do, and Malfoy wouldn't have been expecting that one, would he? – and the distaste – _I don't like you much, either_ – and he was almost relieved by them. For a split second, it was like nothing has changed, until he noticed the fear. Fear. Fear of _what_? Was Malfoy afraid of _him_?

Malfoy didn't even hold his gaze for more than three seconds. He ducked his head and didn't look up again, but Harry kept looking right at him, taking in every detail. It had been a shock to see him for the first time since the Battle. He looked thinner and more pale than he had then, and shaken by his time in Azkaban. His hands were cuffed behind him. Being locked up in a cell with Dementors feeding off his happy memories had never been something Harry would have wished upon the Slytherin, and it made him uneasy to imagine what Malfoy had gone through. Looking at him, he couldn't help but remember Bellatrix and Sirius. They had had different kinds of madness: Sirius' an instability that was mostly controlled, Bellatrix's one that ran wild – but it had been madness all the same, induced or increased by Azkaban.

Harry wondered what was going on in Malfoy's mind right now. _What does he think I'm here for?_ He wished he could see the prisoner's eyes, but Malfoy was staring at the floor. His hair had grown longer in the past year, and because it wasn't slicked back neatly, it fell into his eyes, shielding his expression. He didn't even look up as he was pushed into the chair that stood in the center of the room. The cuffs were unlocked from his wrists, but shackles rose from the chair and bound him into place. Malfoy didn't even react, but Harry shivered at the memories this woke in him. _Why does it always have to be Courtroom Ten?_

It took a while for the trial to start. A few members of the Wizengamot had excused themselves between Narcissa's departure and Malfoy's arrival, and some were a little late in coming back. Harry didn't mind. The first two trials had lasted hours, put together, and he was weary. He focused on Malfoy, wondering if he would be able to help him at all. It couldn't be harder than Lucius', for whom he had hardly been able to offer _any_ mitigating circumstances.

He wasn't quite sure why he was so intent on saving the Malfoy family. Narcissa, he knew why. It wasn't just that he was repaying a debt. He had seen a spark of humanity in her, a love for her son that was so great she was willing to defy her Dark Lord for it. That love was worth saving. As for Draco... He could understand that, too. But Lucius... Harry wasn't even sure _he_ wanted the man to walk free. He was bound to be more convincing in his defense of the son.

The last few members of the Wizengamot shuffled back in, and the room was silent. Kingsley, sitting in the very centre of the first row of seats that the judging wizards were perched upon, spoke. And the trial began.

"Trial number three-zero-one-eight-two-eight-one, part three. Draco Malfoy, resident at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. Due to the extremely severe nature of the accusations, the accused was held in a high-security cell in the prison of Azkaban while awaiting his trial. Interrogators: Kingsley Kaden Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, and Mary Lenora Rosenfeld, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court Scribe: Theodore Randall Cale. Witness for the defence..." Kingsley looked straight at him, his expression grave. "Harry James Potter."

Malfoy didn't raise his head, but he stiffened in surprise. Harry could hardly believe it. Had Malfoy really thought he would let the one who had saved his life go rot in prison without lifting a finger to help? Or had he thought that Harry was there to testify _against_ him?

As soon as the trial began, Harry could tell it was going to be awful. It wasn't even a trial, it was a mockery of one. Worse than Lucius', worse than Narcissa's whom he had barely managed to defend despite the fact that she had _saved his life_. Harry gritted his teeth through the entire thing because it wasn't his turn to speak. The list of accusations was horribly long, so many ways to rephrase the words _torture_ and _murder_ and _kidnapping_, and Malfoy sat so still and pale throughout the reading that Harry was sure he didn't understand a word of it. He only knew that he was facing an entire room of people who wanted to see him die. The Wizengamot demanded a life sentence in Azkaban. When Harry refused to plead guilty, Malfoy didn't even react.

Then there were the witnesses. That was the worst part, without a doubt. Harry's heart sank when he saw the sheer number of people called forward to say something about Malfoy. Malfoy went even whiter, if that was possible, and didn't look any of them in the eye. The things they had to say sent shivers crackling down Harry's spine. It wasn't any worse than what he heard about Lucius, but this was _Malfoy_ for Merlin's sake, he was still... he was practically still a kid.

When it was Harry's turn to speak, finally, finally, Malfoy raised his head. The fear was back, the apprehension, but everything else had been erased. Harry couldn't even find the dislike he was used to seeing in there, and that, more than anything, was what unsettled him. What was he afraid of, for Merlin's sake? He pushed the thought away and looked at the Wizengamot steadily.

"I know Draco Malfoy," he said. "I met him when we were eleven, before we ever got to Hogwarts. I instantly disliked him, and that dislike lasted all throughout the six years we spent together at Hogwarts. He was arrogant and elitist, and yes, he was prejudiced. He believed pure-bloods were worth more than Muggle-borns or half-bloods. I can't deny that. No one can, because it's the truth.

"And he _has_ done the things he is accused of, as far as I know. I won't try to deny that, either. I don't doubt that he has hurt people. Muggle-borns, and others. All these witnesses? They were probably telling the truth. But that doesn't make Malfoy the heartless, cold-blooded killer you make him out to be. He isn't one. I can vouch for that.

"Draco Malfoy showed me, on two separate occasions, that he never wanted anyone to die."

The Wizengamot stirred. Harry saw one witch lean in to mutter something to her neighbour. Kingsley remained impassive, already aware of where this was going. Harry held the entire court's attention.

"The first time," he said, "was last year. I was on the run with my friends. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. One night, I made the..." The stupid, stupid, _stupid _decision to risk _everything_... "… the mistake of saying Voldemort's name, which was under a Taboo at the time. We hardly had time to react before we were caught by Snatchers, but Hermione thought to cast a spell to make it more difficult to identify me. A Stinging Hex, as it were. On my face." He raised a hand to his forehead. "It stretched the scar, making it hardly recognisable.

"The Snatchers recognised Hermione, and that was how they realised I was probably Harry Potter. All three of us were brought to Malfoy Manor, where the Malfoys and Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix Lestrange were to call the Dark Lord. But they couldn't take the risk until they were a hundred percent sure." He cut his eyes to Malfoy, who looked back at him steadily. "They asked Draco to identify me.

"He _knew_ it was me. But he refused to tell them. He said, 'I can't be sure.' Which might have been plausible, considering the state I was in, but we'd known each other for six years. He knew. He had to know. He was also reluctant to identify my friends. He said, 'Maybe,' and 'It could be.' When asked if the girl in front of him, a girl he had spent six years at school with, was Hermione Granger, he said, 'Maybe.'" Harry looked back at the Wizengamot. "Hermione Granger is Muggle-born.

"The second time," he went on quickly, drilling his words into the Wizengamot, "is something everyone has heard of. Everyone knows someone, or knows someone who knows someone, who was at the Battle that night. There were hundreds of us in the Great Hall. They all witnessed what happened. I lost my wand in the chaos; it may have been knocked out of my pocket as I made my way to the centre of the hall, where Voldemort was." He tried not to enjoy the way the wizards in front of him flinched every time he said the name. "I realised it too late, and was going to face off Voldemort without a wand. I would have died. But Malfoy gave me the wand he was carrying. He threw himself between Voldemort and me to give me the means of defending myself." He was silent for a moment. "I won't pretend to know what his motivations were. I don't know why he did it. All I know is that he saved my life... and he made our victory possible. The wand he gave me is the wand that killed Voldemort."

He glanced at Malfoy, who was looking down at the floor again, fixing a spot on the ground with a strange intensity.

"He may have done terrible things, but Draco Malfoy is not a cold-blooded killer. Everything he did was under coercion. Voldemort told him that his family would die if he didn't do as he was told. How many of you would have chosen differently? It wasn't even a _choice_. No one could just sit by without doing anything as their family was killed. He's eighteen years old. He has his whole life ahead of him. You can't just take that away because he tried to protect his family." He fell silent. "That's all I have to say," he said finally, and stepped back.

"All the witnesses have been heard," Kingsley said in his deep, calm voice. "Does the Wizengamot have any requests or questions?"

The room was silent.

"Then let us proceed. Having listened to all the witnesses brought forward, who here is in favour of convicting Draco Lucius Malfoy for..." He paused, grimaced, and looked down at the parchment in front of him to read out the long list of charges again.

Harry's stomach rolled with disgust as he listened to them again.

"… and sentencing him to life in Azkaban?"

Harry's heart soared when no hand was immediately raised, but it only lasted a short moment. There was a lot of furious whispering. The Wizengamot seemed uneasy about something. A witch raised her hand, but it wasn't to cast a vote. She asked for permission to speak, which Kingsley granted with a nod of his head.

"Proposition that the charges be dropped and the sentence be lowered. The defendant should face in a new trial only charges of torture and manslaughter with mitigating circumstances. Ten to fifteen years."

There was a murmur of approval among the wizards surrounding her.

"Rejected," Kingsley said firmly. "Agreeing to your proposal would be declaring him _not_ guilty of torture, one of the many charges he has faced today. The defendant will not reface charges that have already been debated today."

There was some more furious muttering. Kingsley let it last a few seconds, then raised a hand. Silence fell again.

"The Ministry proposes that the defendant and his parents, the two previously judged defendants, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, be sentenced together as the verdict has been similarly... difficult for all three."

He waved a hand, and Lucius and Narcissa were brought into the room. Malfoy looked at them, his expression unreadable.

"The suggestion is that the defendant be allowed to return home with his parents."

There was a flare of hope in Malfoy's expression at the word _parents_.

"However, Malfoy Manor would receive weekly visits from the Ministry and the family would be closely followed by the Auror Office for an undetermined duration, as well as having to pay a fine to be divided equally between the damaged Castle of Hogwarts, the Ministry, and St Mungo's. All in favour?"

Kingsley hardly had to wait as the hands went up, eager to please the new Minister. If the Minister himself had judged important to attend and lead the trial, there had to be a reason.

"The Wizengamot agrees to the proposition. The Malfoy family will be fined 150,000 Galleons and will be confined to house arrest for a week or until the Auror Office and the Ministry have organised themselves for the monitoring of the Malfoys."

Harry heaved a sigh of relief. The sum was staggering, but he didn't care. No price could be put on freedom. He looked at Malfoy, a smile coming naturally to his lips, but the other man didn't smile back. The chains had released him, but he didn't stand up. Harry watched his expression closely. There was bewilderment there. Distrust. And... _anger_. Malfoy was taut, tense, and his eyes shot daggers at Harry.

"You're free," Harry said, and he was surprised to hear gladness and pride in his voice. "You'll never go back to Azkaban. Ever."

"I know." There was an edge to Malfoy's voice, as though he resented it.

Harry didn't like it. "I just saved your _life_, you know."

"Only because I saved yours," Malfoy said bitingly. "I don't need your heroics, Potter. Save it for the _Prophet_."

Harry would have replied – something along the lines of _You ungrateful little swine_ or maybe _Why did you save my life if you hate me so much?_ came to mind – , but when Narcissa stepped forward to embrace her son, he looked away and said nothing.

"_Draco_," he heard Narcissa whisper. "I was so, so afraid for you..."

"It's all right," Malfoy said quietly. The edge in his tone was gone; his voice was a hollow whisper. "It's going to be all right."

Harry could pretend not to be listening, but he couldn't pretend not to have heard the way Malfoy's voice softened and grew tender when he spoke the words.


	5. In Your Eyes

**Thanks for reading! If you like it, maybe drop a review. This chap's a bit longer, hope you guys enjoy it.**

**Next update next week, of course.**

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><p><span><strong>In Your Eyes<strong>

* * *

><p>The <em>Prophet<em>, as it turned out, didn't need anything to be saved for it. It managed very well on its own, thank you very much. By the next day details of the Malfoy trial had been leaked, under the headline DEATH EATERS RELEASED. Harry couldn't even find it in himself to be annoyed by the sullen, accusatory tone of the article. He was rather pleased, actually. Hermione did not find it nearly as amusing (_"You're not _still_ subscribed to that rag, are you?")_.

"I'm still not sure about Lucius Malfoy," Ron said that morning at breakfast as he turned the pages of _T__he Daily Prophet_. "I keep thinking back to the Department of Mysteries... We always thought he was a bastard, you know? The things he would say to my father... Voldemort didn't make him do _that_."

"I know," Harry said. "But his position has changed now. He doesn't have the Ministry's favour anymore. I think it's going to be okay. The Auror Office will be closely following them, anyway."

Ron grimaced. "If I'd known that earlier, I wouldn't have accepted Kingsley's offer to enter training."

"It's not like it will be _us_, personally. We'll have enough classes as it is. It'll be some poor Auror who fought in the war and will wonder why he got landed with the job."

"Yeah, I know." Ron bit into a piece of bread. "D'joo thin' their probation'll be over by the time we become Aurors?"

"I hope so," Harry said.

"Of course it will," Hermione said, as though they should know. "By wizarding law, a probation can't last more than three years. At the end of the three years, it is either lifted, or the person on probation is sent to prison. It will take you longer than that to get through Auror training."

"Well that's a relief," Ron said. "I wouldn't want to set foot back there for all the gold in the world."

He paused, realising what he had said, and glanced guiltily at Hermione. She had been the one to be tortured 'back there,' after all. But her expression was blank, as though she hadn't heard what Ron had said. She stared down at her glass of pumpkin juice. An uncomfortable silence followed.

They were sitting around the kitchen table at 12, Grimmauld Place. Hermione was sitting next to Ron, across the table from Harry. The Weasleys had moved back into the Burrow, but Harry had declined the offer to stay with them, not wanting to be a burden. Instead, Ron and Hermione had followed him to Sirius' old house. Hermione had yet to retrieve her parents from Australia, though she didn't seem overly anxious about it. She claimed to want to wait until things had 'settled.' And Ron, having decided to accept Kingsley's offer that invited all of the fighters of the Battle of Hogwarts over the age of seventeen to begin Auror training, was probably going to stay here with Harry for a while.

"You haven't told us what _you_ want to do," Ron said finally, breaking the silence. "After Hogwarts, I mean."

"That's because I don't know," Hermione replied.

Her voice was steady and calm, as though nothing had happened. Relief flooded Ron's expression. Even though he and Hermione had begun a relationship, he was still quite tactless when it came to dealing with her.

"That's probably why I'm going back to Hogwarts," Hermione confessed, not looking up from her pumpkin juice. "I mean, part of the reason why. There's the fact that I'd like to complete my education. But I also don't know what I want to do later on." She raised her eyes to Harry's. "It feels like... Well, I know there are a lot of interesting things to do. But I can't seem to find anything really... _worthwhile_."

"You could become a mediwitch," Harry suggested. "Or a Healer. You're easily good enough."

She shook her head. "Not that kind of worthwhile. I wasn't thinking of actually saving lives. I... I don't know how to explain it. You'll both laugh at me if I say something about S.P.E.W., won't you?"

Ron didn't laugh, but he didn't exactly keep a straight face, either. She nudged him with her elbow.

"Stop that!"

"I'm not laughing!" he protested, but when she gave him a stern look, he spluttered, then burst out laughing. "That wasn't very fair," he managed to say, before laughing again. "No, really, I understand, Hermione. After saving the world from an insanely powerful, almost immortal dark wizard, being a Healer would be boring. It's much more _worthwhile_ to save the house elves, too!"

Harry smiled at the two of them. At one point, he had worried about losing his best friends to each other, but now he knew he wouldn't want to have it any other way.

Looking at them, he felt a familiar tug of pain as he was reminded of Ginny. They had tried to talk many times, but maybe it was just too soon after the Battle. Every time they were alone together, they were interrupted by someone, or they remembered something they had to do, or they looked at each other and didn't know what to say, or something reminded them of Fred and they _couldn't_ talk. Harry had told her about his year on the run, every little detail, but she hadn't yet had the time to tell him about _her_ year. After seeing the state Neville had been in, Harry wasn't sure he could stomach the telling, but he knew he would have to if they hoped to mend their relationship. They couldn't have anything until it was all out into the open and they understood each other once more.

Right now, though, Harry pushed thoughts of Ginny aside. She would be at Hogwarts for another two years: repeating her sixth year, which she hadn't completed (and even if she had, the Carrows had hardly taught anything worthwhile), and then going through her seventh year. They had all the time in the world, and he knew that eventually, things would work out. At the moment, he was just glad that his friends were safe and sound and with him.

"By the way, Harry," Hermione said after having swatted Ron on the arm. "Kingsley sent an owl this morning before you woke up."

"Would that be Kingsley, or the Minister?"

"The Minister," Hermione said. "According to the letterhead, at any rate. I think we'll be seeing more and more of Minister Shacklebolt and less and less of Kingsley. Not that that's a bad thing. He'll be a good Minister."

"Yeah... I suppose. Wonder why he wrote, though. We saw each other only yesterday."

"He wants you to come see him today."

"That's not how he put it," Ron interjected. "He actually said, 'At your earliest convenience.' Which would be today, of course," he added hastily when Hermione gave him a look.

"You read it?"

Hermione had the decency to look embarrassed, but Ron just grinned.

"Hey, mate, it's not like there are any secrets between us, is there? We had to read it just in case it was urgent."

Harry smiled back. "There aren't many urgent things nowadays, but I'll pretend to believe you."

"_Ron_ opened it because he thought it was going to be about the Malfoys," Hermione said. "I told him it wasn't a good idea."

"It's all right, Hermione. I don't mind. He's right, anyway. From now on, either of you can read my mail if you want to... I don't expect to receive anything I'd want to keep private."

"Don't say that, he'll read Ginny's letters to you from Hogwarts if you give him the chance." Hermione looked pointedly at Ron, who turned red.

"I wouldn't!"

"Did Kingsley say what the meeting would be about?" Harry asked, not really wanting to linger on the subject of Ginny.

Would she even write?

"No, he didn't," Hermione said. "The letter's on the counter if you want to read it. All it says is that he wants to speak to you. It's sort of... curt."

"That's what becoming Minister does to people, I suppose," Harry said.

* * *

><p>At two PM sharp, Harry rapped on the door that led to the Minister for Magic's office.<p>

"Come in," Kingsley's voice said from inside.

"I didn't think it would look like this," Harry said as he stepped in and scanned the room. The walls were bare, there was only a little furniture, and except for the stack of papers on Kingsley's desk, everything was neat to the extreme. "I expected something a little more... flamboyant."

Kingsley's eyes danced. "Yes, most people would think that, wouldn't they? But this office isn't meant to receive anyone. It's the office I'm supposed to work in, so any clutter would only bother me."

Harry eyed him. "I think it suits you. Er, I mean... sir," he added uneasily.

The smile in Kingsley's eyes touched his lips. "It's all right, Harry. Let's not pretend not to know each other. Although," he said, "this _is_ a business matter and not a private one."

Harry frowned. "Business?"

"Sit down, Harry."

He obeyed, seating himself in the chair in front of Kingsley's death. It was made of metal and wood and was stiff and uncomfortable.

"You've applied to join Auror training, haven't you?"

"Er, yes." Did Kingsley have something to say to that? Was he going to object?

"Good for you," the Minister said. "I think you will be able to do more good in this world. But for now, it'll just be training." He looked uncertain for a moment. "I know you aren't short on money, but I have a suggestion to make."

"A suggestion? For money?" Harry frowned. "I thought trainees already received a salary."

"A poor one," Kingsley pointed out, "but you're right, they are remunerated. I have a job on the side for you that could earn a little extra. It would also," he added before Harry could object, "look good on your file, because it's directly related to the work an Auror would do. In fact, it _is_ Auror work."

"Then why not use an Auror?"

"It's Auror grunt work," Kingsley corrected. "A simple but boring task that I don't want to waste an Auror on. They have enough on their hands as it is with all the Death Eaters attempting to flee. The majority of them are abroad. Harry, this isn't the most interesting job ever, but it might give you a taste of what's waiting for you. The risks are minimal."

"But there _are_ risks?"

"I expect you would know better than I do." Kingsley looked down at the pile of papers on his desk and began shifting them around as though looking for something. "How much of a – ah, here it is – how much of a risk do you believe the Malfoys represent?"

Harry blinked. "I – what?"

"The Malfoys," Kingsley repeated patiently. "They should be the only risk you would be exposed to."

"Well," Harry said slowly. His head was spinning; he thought he knew which direction this was heading in and didn't like it at all. "I would be most worried about Lucius, I suppose."

"As you should be. Does he frighten you?"

Harry considered it. "Not really."

"Here." Kingsley slid a sheet of paper across to him. "Fifty extra Galleons a month for about four extra hours of work. You'll have to do it on the weekend or after training hours, though; you're still required to attend all classes."

Fifty Galleons for four hours? Harry had never been at a lack for money, but the disproportionate sum made his head spin. He looked down at the sheet of paper, which had his name at the top. Below that, the names of the three Malfoys.

"It's not anything difficult," Kingsley said. "They'll want to cooperate. You'll have to ask a few questions, look around. It could take fifteen minutes, or a few hours, depending on how thorough you want to be." He hesitated. "If anything happens because you've overlooked something – a Dark artefact, for example – you can be held responsible, but it wouldn't lead anywhere because you're not a qualified Auror. We couldn't hold anything against you."

"You want me to be the one who monitors them?"

"Ideally, yes. You've had experience dealing with the family and I know you're trustworthy. The Ministry has decided on one visit per week for an undetermined amount of time. It could be up to three years. If at any point you decide you want to quit, then that's that and it's over. We'd name someone else."

Harry reached up to touch his scar absentmindedly, then snatched his hand away as soon as he realised he was doing it. "So what does it involve, just... talking?"

Kingsley smiled grimly. "I believe even 'just talking' with the Malfoy family may prove difficult. Essentially, though, that's what you would be doing. You would be checking up on them every week. Your first few visits should also include a search of the house for any suspicious objects. You should ask them if they are any. If they say there aren't, trust that they're lying and look for yourself. We would equip you with the proper devices for finding this sort of thing, although Lucius Malfoy has a way of hiding things he doesn't want found. Even when you find nothing – there's something. And if they did lead you to some objects, you'd have to look around anyway for anything they might have hidden."

"You don't trust them."

Kingsley gave him a look. "Would _you_ trust them to tell the truth?"

Harry thought about it for three seconds. "No."

"I _let_ you testify, Harry," Kingsley said. "I _let_ you take their defense at the trial. If they're not in Azkaban right now, it's thanks to you. But I'm not so sure you've done the wizarding world a favour by doing it."

Harry shifted in his seat, which was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. "What do you mean?"

"When there are people you can't trust outside... When there are ex-_Death Eaters_ walking free in the streets... Isn't that the stuff of nightmares?"

"I..." Harry bit his lip. "They saved my life."

"I know that," Kingsley said. "But is your life worth that of dozens of others?"

His gaze had become too intense, too accusing, and Harry looked away. No, of course it wasn't. That wasn't what he'd meant. He'd meant that if Narcissa and Draco had been willing to save his life, then there was a shred of decency inside of them worth saving. But when you put it the way Kingsley did...

"Think about it, Harry. Think about what you've done. Are you sure it was the right choice?" When Harry didn't say anything, he asked, "Are you going to accept the job?"

"I'll think about it," Harry said. "I probably will. I've been meaning to talk to Malfoy, anyway. But..." He looked up at Kingsley again. "Why me?"

Kingsley looked almost surprised at the question. "Several reasons. It's your fault they're free in the first place, so I immediately thought of you when I realised I needed to find someone to look after them. It seems to me they should be your responsibility. It also appears to me that you're quite suited for the job. If I have to choose a trainee, I would rather it be you." He shrugged in a very non-Minister-like way. "And you know Draco Malfoy. Maybe you'll be able to curb him somewhat."

_Fat chance_, thought Harry as he left the office.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Harry stood in front of the gate to Malfoy Manor. It was elegant in a cold, unfriendly way, made of wrought iron that coiled upwards and ended in dark, fearsome spikes at the top. He remembered it well. Every detail of that day was etched into his mind forever, from the moment he'd spoken Voldemort's name in anger to Hermione's screams as she was tortured to Dobby's death. He would never forget any of it. Big as the manor may be, he suspected he could find his way to the cellar they'd been kept in with no trouble.<p>

Harry hadn't thought he'd been that shaken by the events that had happened here until right now, as he looked behind the metal bars straight at Malfoy Manor. A chill ran up his spine and Ron's words from two days earlier came back to him. _"I wouldn't want to set foot back there for all the gold in the world." _Which, Harry imagined, included the extra fifty Galleons he would be receiving from the Ministry for this. He wondered whether his friend hadn't been right.

Ron had been appropriately horrified when Harry had come back and told him about Kingsley's offer.

_"You're joking, right? He didn't _really_ ask you to be the Malfoys' – their what? Their probation officer? Oh Merlin, you're not joking. Don't tell Hermione."_

But when Hermione had asked what Kingsley had wanted to say, there had been no way for Harry to lie to her. She had taken it remarkably well – or maybe she just hadn't let them see how much it affected her.

_"Well, someone has to do it,"_ she had said calmly.

The words echoed in his mind. _Someone has to do it._ It was true. And that someone was him.  
>He reached out and firmly pressed his hand against the cold iron. Almost immediately, the coils of metal at the top began to move and <em>slither<em> – there was no other word for it – around. He watched as a face appeared.

"State your identity and purpose."

Harry took his hand back, then reached out again, this time pressing a badge Kingsley had given him to the gate. It glowed white for a second.

"Auror Office," he said simply.

The face disappeared. Harry blinked, then realised it meant he was allowed to pass. He closed his eyes and walked through the gate, feeling nothing but a slight chill, less unpleasant than having a ghost float through you. When he was on the other side, he looked back at it. The iron looked as cold and solid as ever.

He looked down the drive, caught sight of an albino peacock, and was surprised by the amused smile that tugged at his lips. _Peacocks, really_. He knew he had seen one, that night, but everything seemed to take on a different dimension now. For one thing, it was daytime; for another, he was in charge this time around. He walked up to the manor neither quickly nor slowly but fluidly, because he had a right to be there. The best right. He made his way up the broad stone steps easily, but stopped at the door. It was open, and Draco Malfoy stared out at him.

It was the first time Harry had seen him since the trial, and he had changed very little in those few days. There was a tension around his eyes that spoke of fatigue and bitterness, and he looked drawn and pale. He also looked like the world was playing a very bad joke on him. Harry rather shared the sentiment.

"You've got to be joking," Malfoy said in disbelief. "They didn't assign us to _you_."

"Actually, they did."

"You're not even an Auror yet! You're just in training. You're still – you aren't any older than I am!"

"Our Aurors have better things to do. Like tracking down Death Eaters on the run, for example. Look, Malfoy, I'm about as thrilled about this as you are."

"Like hell you are," Malfoy snapped. "I'd rather have a Blast-Ended Skrewt checking up on us than Harry bloody _Potter_."

"Trust me, the feeling's mutual. Are you going to let me in, or do I have to force my way through?"

Malfoy eyed him skeptically. "You wouldn't."

"What do you know about me?"

He smiled, a bitter half-smile. "More than I want to."

The bravado was forced, though, and Malfoy stepped aside to let him in, not without scowling at him. Harry ignored it, but he felt the itch to start a fight just for the hell of it. _He saved your life_, he reminded himself. And unlike Narcissa who had only been thinking of her son, Draco had thrown himself between Voldemort and Harry for no viable reason at all. The antipathy between them was still strong enough to make the air crackle with tension, but Harry had decided to ignore it.

"Second drawing room, I imagine?" Malfoy said, more to himself than to Harry. "Since the main drawing room is where... where..."

"The second will be fine."

Malfoy shot him a glance. "I thought so."

He led the way, and Harry tried hard not to look at the portraits that lined the walls, or at the door which he knew led to the main drawing room. He was extremely aware of his surroundings, as though everything was a painful memory of the past. But the room Malfoy led him to was an entirely unfamiliar one, and that was a mercy. He gave the room a sweeping glance. It was smaller than the main drawing room. The walls were painted a deep blue. There was a fancy fireplace in one corner, portraits – always portraits – on the walls, and a small, low wooden table around which were positioned several uncomfortable-looking, obviously antique wooden armchairs and a plushier couch. It was actually fairly unassuming compared to the main drawing room.

"I suppose... you'd like to take a seat," Malfoy said, gesturing.

Harry elected one of the armchairs and was surprised to find it wasn't really that uncomfortable. Malfoy sat in another one across from him, on the other side of the table. He leaned back into the chair and folded his arms defensively. They sat in awkward silence for a moment, just staring at each other.

Now that he was alone in a room with him, Harry could tell there was something different about Malfoy. Not just the weight he'd lost or how pasty his skin had become, but something else, something inside his eyes. They had lost the spark Harry had always been able to ignite in them – that spark caused by fury, amusement, mocking.

"You've cut your hair," Malfoy said suddenly.

It was such a ridiculous, inane comment that Harry almost laughed. But he didn't; after all, he had just been staring at Malfoy's _eyes_.

"What?"

Malfoy shrugged. "It was almost to your shoulders last time you were here. You looked a mess."

Harry looked at him speculatively. "But you still recognised me, didn't you?"

Malfoy lowered his gaze and didn't reply, which was all the confirmation Harry needed.

"Well, you're probably in need of a haircut yourself," he said, wondering if that was bait enough for an argument.

It wasn't. Malfoy didn't even react.

"Here," Harry said, reaching into the pocket of his robes.

Malfoy stiffened and leaned further back into his chair if it were possible. Harry caught the movement and frowned. _Scared again?_ He pulled out a wand and rolled it between his fingers, watching Malfoy's expression cautiously.

It took a minute for Malfoy to get it, and then his eyes narrowed and his mouth set into a firm line.

"Hawthorn wood," Harry said. "Ten inches, unicorn hair core, and... what was it Ollivander said? 'Reasonably springy.'"

Malfoy looked down at the wand, his expression unreadable.

"It's yours," Harry said, sliding it across the table to him. "I'm giving it back."

"I don't want it." The words were said in a flat tone that brooked no argument.

Harry was stunned. "What? Why? It's your _wand_."

Malfoy stared at it with obvious distaste. There wasn't a hint of longing in his eyes. There wasn't a hint of anything.

"No it's not. You know it isn't. It's yours, now. 'Winners, keepers,' remember?"

Harry thought about arguing but stopped himself. Malfoy didn't look like he was going to let himself be swayed. He pocketed the wand again, trying not to think about the way it felt in his hand. Like it fit.

"Are you going to get a new one, then?"

Malfoy turned the full force of his gaze on him. "Obviously. I'm sure Ollivander would be glad to come back here to make me one," he said dryly.

Harry flinched. "Oh."

"Oh," Malfoy repeated with an eye-roll, and there it was – that _condescending_ tone Harry had always associated with him. Until now.

Harry was silent for a moment.

"Then... will you take this one?"

Malfoy's eyes snapped to him. "What?"

Harry slid the wand that had killed the Dark Lord across the table. This time, Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"I don't know whose this is," Harry said. "But you _gave_ it to me. I didn't take it, so... it's not like its allegiance has changed, or anything." And it felt strange in his hand, twisted and ugly. He would be glad to be rid of it.

Malfoy stared at the wand. Something flickered in his expression.

"It doesn't belong to me," he said slowly. "This wand... it's Goyle's. I took it from him during the Battle. I watched him get Stunned by one of yours..." He paused. "He was arrested, wasn't he?"

Harry nodded. "He's facing serious charges. It's likely he'll be in Azkaban for a while. I don't know what else to do with this..." He shook his head as though to clear his head. "He was your friend."

Malfoy was quiet for a long time. "Not really," he said finally. "We weren't really... friends. Crabbe and him, they were..." He trailed off.

Whatever he might say, Harry could see the pain and regret in his eyes. It wasn't the feeling he had been hoping to elicit, but it was a start. He remembered, suddenly, that Crabbe had died during the Battle, and how Malfoy had reacted to that, saying the other Slytherin's name as though he couldn't quite believe it...

"Will you take it?" he asked. "He wouldn't want me to have it."

Malfoy scowled. "That's for sure," he said, and reached out to take the wand. He stared at it for a moment, then looked back up at Harry. "Are you _sure_? I mean, this wand..."

"I'm sure. I repaired mine –"

"I still can't believe you _lost_ your wand during the Battle."

"That was yours, actually. Mine was broken, that's why I was using yours." He paused. "It worked well for me."

The corners of Malfoy's lips turned down into a slight frown.

"But I've repaired mine," Harry said again, "and I don't need any other."

Malfoy eyed him. "Not even the Elder Wand?"

"Especially not the Elder Wand," Harry said firmly.

"Did it... was it really..."

"Yeah. It was."

Malfoy almost smiled. Almost. "How very Gryffindor of you to give it up." He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "So how is this supposed to go? Should I offer you a drink?"

"You don't have to."

In fact, he would rather Malfoy didn't. This was awkward enough as it was, he didn't want to make more conversation as they drank. He stood up.

"I need to see the house. All of it."

"Why?"

Harry looked at Malfoy pointedly. "Why do you think?"

"You won't find a thing," Malfoy said stiffly. "If you ask, though..."

"Will you show me what I want to see? And give them over to me?"

Malfoy shrugged. "We won't be needing them anymore, I'd expect."

* * *

><p>Five secret caches and one hour later, Harry was back in the second drawing room with an impressive amount of dark artefacts in his arms. It was unnerving even to touch them. They seemed to radiate an aura which made him uncomfortable. It was probably all in his mind, but he would be glad when they were handed over to the Ministry.<p>

"Satisfied?" Malfoy asked.

"Not really," Harry said, carelessly dumping the objects on the table.

Malfoy's pale eyebrows knitted together.

"Not yet, at any rate." Harry moved across the room and stood close to the wall, inspecting it. "I still have to check you're not hiding anything." He caught Malfoy's look. "Orders are orders," he said.

"So that's how it is, is it? We cooperate, and you treat us like shit?"

"Like criminals," Harry said absently, tracing the wall with his fingers. "Which you are."

"Brilliant," Malfoy said bitterly. "Fucking brilliant."

Harry ignored him and focused. He cast a detecting spell, moving his wand along the wall, eyes alert. Nothing appeared amiss.

"_Now_ are you satisfied?"

"Not yet," Harry said again. "You'll have to show me the entire manor. Everything. Cellar, attic if you have one, bedrooms, kitchen, whatever."

"That's stupid," Malfoy said. "If we were hiding something, you would never find it."

"Everything," Harry repeated firmly.

Malfoy scowled. "Fine. But it's going to take some time."

"I've got all day."

They went through Malfoy Manor like that. Malfoy kept shooting him spiteful glances and the occasional furious comment – _Don't touch that_ or, _That belongs to my mother_ –, but he didn't step in to stop Harry. It was when they reached what was obviously his parents' room that he started to crack. He gritted his teeth at everything Harry did. When Harry started opening the clothes drawers, he cursed under his breath. Harry turned to look back at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"Azkaban would be better than this." His tone was flat.

Harry stared at him. "You're not serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Harry's jaw tightened. "I could send you back to Azkaban, if that's what you want. We can go there right now, as a matter of fact. Just send a house-elf to inform your parents and we'll be on our way."

Malfoy scowled. "Fuck you, Potter."

"I didn't think so."

He completed the search without finding anything else and without another comment from Malfoy. When they came back to the second drawing room empty-handed, Malfoy's expression was vaguely smug.

"_Now_ are you satisfied?"

"Not completely, but it'll have to do."

Malfoy frowned. "So that search was pointless."

"Pretty much."

"You just spent three hours going through every room in my house and it was _pointless_?"

"That's what I just said, yeah."

"Bloody _hell_."

"I'd like that drink now, if the offer still stands."

"It's not like I can say 'No, and get the hell out of my house,' is it?" Malfoy moved away and rang a bell just beside the door, once. "It's magically linked to one in the kitchen," he said when Harry looked at it questioningly. "Our house-elf will come up in a moment."

There was a quiet _pop_ as the elf Apparated into the room. It gave Malfoy a deep bow, then raised its eyes on the master's guest. Its eyes widened briefly in recognition and it bowed again, at least as deeply. Harry thought he noticed a flicker of annoyance in Malfoy's expression.

"Dippy," Malfoy said, "Potter would like a drink." He glanced at Harry.

"Water would be perfect."

Malfoy nodded. "A glass for me as well," he instructed the house-elf.

Dippy Disapparated.

"Can they Apparate while holding glasses?" Harry asked.

Malfoy shot him a look that clearly implied he thought Harry was an idiot. "If they wanted to, they could, but they don't need to come to send the glasses."

Sure enough, two large glasses of water appeared on the table shortly afterward, not unlike the way food appeared on the tables at Hogwarts. _Hogwarts._ As Harry took a deep gulp of water, he thought about the school he would never return to. It had been his home for a long time. He would miss it.

"Are you going back to Hogwarts?" he asked suddenly.

Malfoy looked at him strangely. He pulled a wrinkled piece of parchment out of his pocket; it only took a glance for Harry to recognise the green ink and unmistakable penmanship. He didn't know why the sight of it surprised him so much; he had received his own Hogwarts letter – as though anyone thought he was going back – the previous day.

"You got it, too," he said stupidly.

"Yeah. Fucking joke it is."

"So you're not going back?"

Malfoy shot him a look. "Are you toying with me, Potter?"

"I just thought –"

"No, you didn't," Malfoy said. "Of course you _didn't_. Because if you had thought about it for even a spit second, you would have remembered that I _can't_. Because I'm stuck here. With you."

"Oh." Harry blinked. "Oh, right." He hesitated. "I'm sure something could be worked out..."

"Of course. I'm sure they'd all be thrilled to see me. And having my N.E.W.T.s would be more than enough for me to secure myself a wonderful job as soon as I step out of school," Malfoy said dryly.

Harry winced. "I only meant –"

"I know what you meant, Potter. I'm not going back. What's the point?"

"It's..." Harry looked for the right words. "I don't know," he said finally. "I just wondered."

"Well now you know."

"Yeah." Again, Harry paused. "Would you _want_ to? Go back, I mean?"

"That's not really the point, is it?"

"Are your friends going back?"

That earned him an unamused smirk. "Define 'friends.'"

"I... oh, you know. I meant the other Slytherins in our year."

"I don't know, for the most part. I doubt Pansy will. I suppose Blaise might. Theo, too."

"Theodore _Nott_?" Harry said, frowning.

Malfoy shot him a look. "Son of the Death Eater Nott, yes."

"Sorry. I didn't mean..."

Malfoy's expression softened somewhat, the creases on his forehead easing up. "I know."

"Are you friends with him?"

"After a fashion. Again, Potter, you'd have to define the word 'friends.'"

"Never mind," Harry said, giving up.

He took another sip of water. When he looked up again, Malfoy was watching him intently.

"What?" he asked.

"You shouldn't have bothered with those Occlumency lessons in fifth year , Potter. "

"How do you even know about those?"

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "I was a Death Eater, Potter... And I knew Snape." He shrugged. "They were a waste of time, you know. I don't even need Legilimency to read your mind."

He tensed up. "What do you mean?"

"Everything you think is written all over your face. I know why you came."

"Yeah?" Harry looked at him. "Why's that? Does it have anything to do with the fact that the Minister _asked me to_?"

"A little," Malfoy said, "but not much."

"Then what is it?"

"Don't play dumb, Potter."

They held each other's gazes for a full minute, daring each other to look away.

"Are you done here?" Malfoy asked finally, lowering his gaze first.

Harry blinked. "I... yeah, I think. But where are your parents? I should talk to them."

Malfoy squared his shoulders. "Not today."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so."

Again, his tone brooked no argument, and against his better judgment, Harry decided to let it slide. _Just this once._ Because it was Malfoy, and Malfoy had saved his life.

"Then yeah, I'm done here."

"That's great. Good-bye, Potter. Try to convince the Ministry to send someone else next time."

"Will do."

He was escorted off the grounds by Dippy the house-elf. Malfoy stayed behind in the drawing room.

Just before Harry stepped out into the daylight, he set Malfoy's wand on a little table beside a vase of flowers just inside the door.

Just in case he changed his mind.

It wasn't like he wanted to carry a piece of Malfoy around with him forever.


	6. All I Wanted Was to Survive

**Introducing... another Slytherin.**

**And another long chapter! I must have been inspired. Possibly because I really, really like writing about this character even though I never really liked them in the novels. **

**Enjoy. And thank you for reading, favoriting, following, reviewing.**

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><p><span><strong>All I Wanted Was to Survive<strong>

* * *

><p>Draco had meant it when he had told Potter to keep his wand. The bastard had left it behind deliberately, and they both knew it. He had thought of trying to return it, but he wasn't going to force something that belonged to <em>him<em> on the Boy-Who-Lived. So for a few days he had tried to ignore it, scowling every time his gaze accidentally fell on it. It hadn't moved from its place beside the door; the house-elves knew better than to touch a wizard's wand. And then Draco had picked it up, thinking he would put it away somewhere he wouldn't see it every time he went for a walk on his own grounds. A sudden rush of warmth and familiarity had travelled up his arm, and he had decided to keep it. It wasn't really a _decision_, more like a concession.

So now he had his wand, and Goyle's besides. Goyle's he kept on top of a chest of drawers in his bedroom, a constant reminder of the Battle, the Fiendfyre, and the two friends he had lost that day. Crabbe had died and Goyle would be locked up for years and years – maybe forever. He felt a pang of guilt, even though he knew it was one of the few things that _wasn't_ his fault. Since Azkaban, rational thoughts evaded him easily and he had to keep himself from sinking into darkness. The main thing that kept him anchored to the real world was that his parents were slowly spiralling down into that darkness, and he was doing everything he could to drag them out of it and keep them here with him.

_"Stay with me,"_ he kept repeating, over and over again. _"Please, stay with me."_

It wasn't that they had gone mad, exactly, but something about them was changed. Gone was their ever-present control. Cracks had fissured the façade they had been hiding behind, and now Draco could see everything. The fear, the pain, the regret. It scared him, seeing his parents like this. They were like entirely different people. He could feel them slowly sliding away from him, his father drawing heavily from his anger and his mother giving in to her sorrow. _What did they do with Bella's body? How can she be dead? Where is my sister? What have we done, Draco? Draco, it's so hard to go on..._ Some days he almost wanted to let them go. Something told him it would be the kindest thing to do. But a bigger part of him screamed that he couldn't, _wouldn't_ survive alone. So he kept pulling them back from that place they retreated to. At the worst of Lucius' anger, Draco could find the words to bring him back. When his mother was so far away she seemed to almost disappear, he knew how to make her real again.

Sometimes.

Hopefully, he could do it this time.

"My sister, my family... my sister..."

"Ssh," Draco said, kneeling beside his mother who was curled up in an armchair. "Ssh, mother, it's all right."

He reached out to touch her arm lightly, increasing the pressure when she didn't react. Tears streaked down Narcissa's face. Across the room, Lucius sat in a high-backed chair, watching on impassively. Draco suppressed the wave of anger that threatened to wash over him. He knew it wasn't his father's fault, not any more than it was Narcissa's.

"Bella is happy where she is," he said soothingly, trying to ignore the weight of his father's cool stare. "It's a lovely place, where she's always wanted to be. She's with your parents now."

His mother looked up at him, her lashes wet. She looked for all the world like a child.

"Really?"

"Really," he confirmed, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "They want you to be happy, too." He stood up, brushing the dust off the front of his robes. "Do you want to read anything, mother?"

She didn't reply, but he left the drawing room for the library anyway, figuring a book would take his mind off things for a while. When he came back with a thick, leather-bound book under his arm, his mother was sitting up in the chair, holding herself very still, staring into space. His heart clenched painfully. He hated it when she was like this. It was as though the Dementors had taken her soul...

She turned to smile at him, a cool smile that failed to reach her eyes. "Draco," she said.

Relief flooded through him and he returned her smile. She was back, for a while. Her composure was back.

"You've got a visitor. The gate just warned us while you were away. She'll be here in a few seconds."

_She?_ Draco thought as he went to the door.

He opened it and waited at the top of the steps, squinting down the drive at the green-robed figure slowly making its way up to the manor. As the silhouette drew closer, he saw it was a young woman with glossy black hair, an even, quick stride, and an easy sway to her hips. Pansy. Of course. Who else could it have been?

He looked at her, wanting to feel something. Affection. Disdain. _Something._ But nothing came, and Draco only felt cold inside.

She didn't wait to be invited in. She had never needed to. Instead, she brushed past him as she walked in and made her way to the drawing room. He closed the door behind her, then leaned against the wall and watched her intently as she walked away from him. She hadn't changed much over the last few weeks – since the Battle –, but the air around her simmered with fury and her step was fast and determined. He didn't think he had ever seen Pansy be truly angry, or at least not with that anger directed at him. He followed her silently, wondering what this was going to be about. Dread pooled in his stomach. He thought he knew exactly what had made Pansy so angry.

Pansy rang the bell beside the door, calling on the house-elf, and seated herself at a chair around the table as though it were _her_ house and Draco was the guest. That was when Draco realised the extent of her fury. Pansy had always been comfortable at his house, but she would never have pushed the limits of propriety like this before. He said nothing as she ordered Dippy about, asking for a Firewhiskey. By this point, anyone else would have been thrown out, but not Pansy. He owed her that, at least.

"Would you like something?" Pansy offered, almost as an afterthought. As though she could _offer_ him something that belonged to him.

"No," he said tightly.

She shrugged and sent the house-elf on its way.

"So," Pansy said, her tone flat and unfriendly. "How have you been?"

"Well enough. What about you?"

She ignored the question and went straight to the point. "You _would_, wouldn't you? You got off scot-free."

He'd guessed right, then. That _had_ been what she'd come about.

"Hardly 'scot-free'," he said, even though he knew he was fighting a lost battle. "We had to –"

"Pay a fine, I know," she cut in. "It was all over the papers. You know, when _my _family was put on trial, we didn't make the headlines."

Her tone was conversational, but her eyes told the real story. He could see blame and confusion there.

"Pansy, it's not –"

"Your _mother_ I could understand," she said. "She's different. I always thought she was just scared, like me. But your father... how could they let _him_ go, Draco? Why does you father get away with the things he's done?"

"I don't _know_."

He tried to sound convincing, even though he knew that with her, it was a lost cause. She was stubborn as hell. But she didn't cut in, because her Firewhiskey had appeared. She downed it in one gulp.

"It wasn't something we planned," he went on. "I thought we would go back to Azkaban after the trial..." His voice trailed off.

Pansy's expression darkened. "They locked you up right after the Battle, didn't they?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too." She looked down at the table, turning the small, now empty glass over in her hand. "My entire family."

"I'm sorry."

He really _was_ sorry. He had gone through the same thing, the exact same suffering. It was one of the most cruel things he had ever witnessed. Throwing a family into a cell together and watching them go crazy one by one as the ones who clung to sanity saw their loved ones fade away. He didn't know whose idea that had been, but if he ever found out, Draco knew it would almost be a pleasure to kill the guy. Painfully.

Pansy's voice was quiet and strained. "It was... awful. I thought I would go mad. I never knew I'd been so happy until they took it away. And watching my mother..."

Her fingers tightened around her glass until her knuckles went white and Draco thought she would break it.

"I think that was the worst thing anyone has ever done to me."

Draco reached out and silently pried her fingers from the glass, setting it down on the table. She let him cover her hand with his and lace their fingers together, almost like the old times.

"I never..." She seemed to choke on her words. "Draco..."

"I've missed you," he said softly. "And I'm so sorry."

He had liked her, at a time that seemed so far away now. Honestly liked her. She was affectionate and caring and gentle with him, and that had been just what he needed, just what he craved. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had believed they would eventually end up marrying each other. They had never spoken about it, but Draco had never been able to imagine it any other way. There were worse fates than marrying a friend, and Pansy was the closest thing to a female friend Draco had. She was pure-blooded and a good match, too; her features were even and not entirely unattractive despite the flatness of her face and nose, and Draco had always been fond of her sleek black hair.

Obviously, it wasn't going to happen now.

"Do you remember," Pansy said slowly, "the first time we kissed?"

He did.

"It was in fifth year. It wasn't anything special, but it was special to me. We were in the Common room. You had just learnt that Potter was banned from Quidditch. I expected you to be ecstatic about that, but you looked sort of... let down, as though it wasn't worth fighting if he wasn't your opponent."

That had been exactly how he had felt.

"We were talking, well, I'm not even sure about what. I was trying to get your spirits up, to get you to smile at me. I said something about Ginny Weasley, who was going to play as his replacement, something about the guys finding her pretty..."

"And I said, 'I've seen much prettier.'"

"Yeah." Pansy was quiet for a moment. "It wasn't _what_ you said. I knew you would never agree, anyway, because she was a blood traitor. It was _how_ you said it. You looked at me, and you smiled, and I thought you meant me. So I kissed you."

"I did mean you."

She gave a short laugh. "Of course you did."

Two years ago, or three, Draco may have said something at this moment, something to assure her that she _was_ attractive. Because she was, in her own way; or at least she could be. Her flat, slightly turned-up nose gave her face character and pride; it suited her, because Pansy was tough and arrogant. But now, Draco had nothing to say, no false pretense of romance to maintain – and he doubted Pansy was that concerned about such things as appearances anymore.

"It was always me doing the kissing." Pansy looked down at their intertwined hands. "_I_ was always the one initiating things. But you didn't mind, did you? You liked it. You didn't want to have to chase after a girl. So I... I chased after you."

"You didn't have to chase very far," he said. "I was right there."

"Yeah." A very small smile tugged the corners of her lips upward. "You were, weren't you? It was always so easy with us. I always _expected_ to fall for you. When I did, it wasn't even a surprise. Not to me, and certainly not to you. Was it?"

"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."

"I always thought... not something silly like we were meant to be, but... I thought we would logically end up together." She gave a harsh, self-mocking laugh. "And it didn't even bother me. I kind of liked the thought."

And maybe Draco had, as well. Pansy had been a pillar in an ever-changing world, the one person who he'd thought would always care for him. His parents had been too involved in the war for him to be able to fully trust them, though Salazar knew they loved him. Pansy had been his age, and pure-blood, and in love with him.

He hadn't thought it would hurt so much when that ceased to be true.

* * *

><p>"Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemortvoldemortvoldem –"<p>

"Will you stop it already?" Harry hissed.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said.

He'd been chanting the name underneath his breath for the past minute and a half, as though it could give him some sort of protection against the nerves that were failing him. The frightened, almost ritualistic chant was giving Harry cold sweats; he couldn't listen to Voldemort's name being invoked that way without reacting. The problem was that Ron was nervous, and five minutes ago he'd had a moment of sheer brilliance that had prompted him to say that having faced Voldemort together, they could surely do _this_. Harry hoped that way of thinking wasn't going to become a habit.

He couldn't fully blame Ron, though. Walking into the Ministry with his Department-issued robes was as awkward as Harry had imagined it would be. He simply couldn't do inconspicuous. It had been in the papers today – not front-page, mercifully, but still there for anyone who cared to look – that today would be his first day in Auror training, and Hermione had warned him people would be staring. Ron, tall and red-headed beside him, wasn't helping matters.

It also didn't help that their trainee robes were maroon, a colour that clashed vibrantly with Ron's hair and had him scowling darkly at anyone who so much as glanced their way. The scowl was obviously not intimidating enough, because Harry could feel a the weight of two dozen gazes resting on his forehead. He struggled against the urge to flatten his hair over his scar. Maybe he would let his hair grow out longer. And get rid of the glasses. And never go out in public again.

Harry kept his head down as they walked over to the lift, which was unfortunately half-full. The four occupants glanced at them uninterestedly, then down at their watches with considerably more interest. Then they all did a double-take, their eyes widening. Harry turned around so his back was to them, facing the closing doors of the lift. He looked to Ron for moral support, but Ron was beginning to look a bit green in the face, which _really_ didn't look good with his robes.

The Auror Office, where they'd been told to report, was on the second floor, which mercifully meant that they didn't have to remain long in the lift and were among the first to rush out. Inside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – a mouthful that Ron had already taken to shortening to DMLE –, employees seemed considerably busier, hardly even looking up at Harry and Ron as they passed. Harry felt immediately more comfortable, even though a tendril of nervousness was coiling in his belly. Arthur Weasley had given them the instructions to find the Auror Office, so they didn't have to ask for directions. The Office was conspicuously void of any Aurors; instead, a small dozen people around Harry's age were standing in a half-circle, sizing each other up and occasionally looking at their watches. From the tired, pinched faces, Harry surmised they had woken up early and had been waiting for a while.

"Blimey," Ron said, shock toning down the green of his face, "Harry, look, that's _Neville_."

And it was, and Neville gave them a small wave when he saw them. He looked, quite incredibly, less out of place than Ron; though he was undeniably nervous, he handled it well. Harry was glad to see him if it meant he would have another friend in the Ministry, but he wondered why Neville had chosen to apply. This was the last place he would have expected to find him.

"Harry, Ron!" Neville said with a lopsided grin as they approached, Ron clapping him on the back. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. 'Course I knew you'd be here, everyone knew. How have you been?"

"Fine," Ron said, and almost sounded like he believed it, as though seeing Neville so relaxed had brought his pride rearing in to tone down the anxiety. "But what are _you_ doing here? Didn't you want to go back to Hogwarts? I thought you'd end up doing something with plants or whatever."

Neville shrugged. "I never gave any thought to being an Auror before they sent the offer. It just seemed... right. I can't see myself going back to plants after having seen what I did. Or maybe I just wanted to see whether I _could_ do it." He smiled wryly, a look Harry was not used to seeing on Neville. "My gran is thrilled, of course. Did you know Seamus will be here, too? He tried to trick Dean into accepting – even tried to send an owl in his place – but Dean caught him and Charmed his hair green for a week. Irish colours and all, but Seamus was furious –"

"That's a Slytherin colour," Ron objected, wrinkling his nose.

"I think that's what Dean was aiming for. He's going back to Hogwarts, did you know? Seamus said no way was _he_ going back. He really wanted Dean to join Auror training, but that didn't work out."

Harry remembered Dean had been on the run the previous year, and how Seamus had run over to hug him when he'd seen him on the night of the Final Battle. Before that, he'd hardly ever seen the two best friends apart. A strange ache coiled in the bit of his stomach as he was reminded that Hermione, too, would be returning to Hogwarts.

"Seamus is going to be great to have around," Ron said enthusiastically. "We have Potions classes, don't we? I bet he'll blow up the Ministry his first week here."

Neville gave a laugh that wasn't quite as hearty as it could have been. "I bet I'm paired up with him," he said, sounding nervous for the first time. "We'll definitely make something explode –"

"The instructor won't be anything like Snape," Harry said, trying to be comforting. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Snape," Ron repeated, a mixture of scorn and amazement in his tone. "That book of his, though... The git was a better teacher than you thought, wasn't he, though?"

_And a better man_, thought Harry, but he only shrugged. He wasn't sure how he felt about the dead Potions master. The Pensieve memories had added a new dimension to his personality, but they couldn't eclipse the way Snape had acted all these years. And that he had been in love with Harry's _mother_... Harry definitely didn't know how he felt about that.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and Harry turned around in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt walk in through the door, dressed in red and flanked by a half-dozen Ministry employees whose dark grey robes and fluid grace made them look like shadows, or spectres. They didn't look anything like Mad-Eye or Tonks, but Harry knew they were Aurors. He heard Ron swallow nervously beside him.

"Good morning," Kingsley said, his eyes travelling over the trainees. His gaze landed for a second on Harry, but did not linger.

The trainees murmured a collective greeting in response. A few inclined their heads, while others looked unsure as to how they were supposed to address a Minister.

"I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Auror Office is a part of the largest and, some might say, most important department in the Ministry. If you successfully pass Auror training – and I am convinced that everyone present has the skill and the determination to succeed – then as Aurors you'll be seeing a lot of me. I expect you to report to me if something seems important. I'm busy, but my office door is always open for Aurors." He nodded to one of the men beside him. "Auror Robards will tell you more about what your training will consist in."

Robards stepped forward. There was silver thread worked into his robes at the shoulders and around his wrists, setting him apart from the others. He was easily the oldest in the group, and a good deal older than Kingsley, with close-cropped white hair and a heavily lined face.

"I'm the Head of the Auror Office," he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper. "That means I'm the one who will supervise your years of training. The one who will hear your instructors' reports. The one who chooses who you'll be partnered with." His thin lips stretched out into a smile. "The one who gets to decide whether you pass training or not."

"The one who sounds almost as full of himself as Percy," Ron muttered.

He seemed to have got past his nerves, and was looking at Robards with an interesting mixture of disgust and grudging respect. Robards' eyes narrowed and he turned his head in their direction, but before he could say anything the door slammed open behind them and Seamus Finnegan rushed in, his face flushed and his breath coming in short, heaving bursts. Harry and the rest of the room turned to stare, and someone laughed.

The bruises on his face were long gone. That was the first thing Harry noticed, and was glad to notice. Beyond that, he was still Seamus – sandy-haired and self-confident, though maybe a little leaner than Harry remembered.

"Mr Finnegan," Kingsley said with a small, furtive smile. "Glad you could join us."

Seamus gave him a wide grin. "Sorry I'm late, Minister. I'm afraid I slept in."

One of the Aurors beside Robards gave an inelegant snort. The only woman in the group raised her eyebrows and focused her attention on the newcomer; Harry got the distinct feeling that she had singled Seamus out for something. Considering she looked like a greyhound, all lean muscles and sharp teeth, he doubted it would be anything good.

Seamus' eyes met his, and the smile slid off his face as they locked gazes. They had never been best friends, but they had shared a dorm for years at Hogwarts. They had had their fair share of bad moments since fourth year – the Triwizard, Seamus doubting that Voldemort had returned, small disagreements about the Quidditch team – and their exchanges had sometimes been downright poisonous. On the other hand, he had fought in the Battle and had been on Harry's side since the end of fifth year. He'd apologised, but their friendship was still awkward at best and he obviously wasn't sure how to act.

Harry offered him a tight smile, and Seamus' eyes lit up as he strode over to them and took a place by Neville's side. He turned his face to Robards, but he kept glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. Harry didn't mind, because there was no worship or curiosity in his eyes, only uncertainty. Something personal.

Besides, he was looking right back.

"Well," Robards said smoothly over the tittering of the trainees, who immediately fell silent. "Now that we've established that you're all little better than schoolchildren, I'll proceed to explain how the immaturity will be beaten out of you. There is no room for slackers on the field. There is no room for irresponsible little children. We need Aurors who can obey without question, react quickly, and fight well. You may find yourself in life-threatening situations –"

"Right, because that would be a first for all of us here," Seamus said, and again a ripple of muted laughter ran through the class.

Harry felt a surge of appreciation for Seamus.

"– and should that happen," Robards went on, looking supremely unruffled (although the woman beside him gave Seamus another one of her looks), "we need to know you won't panic. We need people we can trust. When you're an Auror, you're not just responsible for your own life." This was said with a hard look directed at Seamus. "You're responsible for other people's as well. Your partners'. You have to be able to work with any Auror, and work well. Fighting between yourselves, outside of duelling lessons, is not tolerated. Neither is sabotage. From this moment on, each and every one of you is part of a team. If one of you fails, he had better have a damn good reason – because if he doesn't, then you all fail right alongside him. Everyone makes it or no one makes it."

"That's not very fair," said a boy with glasses and a deep frown.

"Everyone or no one," Robards repeated. "You could be partnered with anyone on the field. Anyone who has the qualities required to be an Auror. You're going to learn to set individualism aside. Your pride has no place here. Shelve it away along with your rivalries. Play to your strengths and help each other with your weak points so as to homogenise the group. No one gets left behind."

"What about getting ahead?" asked the same boy.

He had been a Ravenclaw, Harry recalled vaguely. Richard something, but he couldn't remember how old he was.

Robards smiled, but it wasn't kind. "I'd like to see you try."

The boy smiled back just as unpleasantly and looked as though his life's ambition had become to prove Robards wrong.

"Because we want you to be aware of each other's strengths and weaknesses, you'll be partnered with someone different every two weeks for the first few months, after which you will be assigned a permanent partner. That is to say, the person you'll be working with during classes. You may be assigned other people for field exercises. That is my decision to make.

"Marks are collective for you and your partner. This is non-negotiable, so I suggest you learn not to hate each other as quickly as you can."

Robards waited a few beats, but not out of hesitation. It was more like he wanted to give the words time to sink in.

"Training will consist of five main classes, as well as one to three optional classes. You'll be asked to choose these at the end of the week. They aim to complete your training and accentuate your strengths, resulting in a solid yet multi-talented team. Choose wisely. They will be presented to you later today." He nodded at one of the men beside him. "This is Auror Dreandel."

Dreandel was a heavyset man with a spine so straight it hurt to look at. He allowed his gaze to wander over each of the trainees in turn.

"Dreandel teaches Potions and Poisons, a class which requires much precision and dedication."

"I doubt that any of you will have the talent required to brew a flawless poison," Dreandel said in a voice that was clear and loud in the utter silence of the room. "It used to be Auror training was more selective. Though I will pick out and encourage those with any aptitude, I will devote most of my efforts to having you be able to recognise various potions."

Kingsley's eyes narrowed briefly as Dreandel spoke, but in the next instant his expression cleared, and Harry couldn't be sure he'd really seen it.

"Wandless and Wordless lessons will be taught by Auror Gentley," Robards said next.

As he spoke the names of the instructors, they stepped forward and bowed their heads. Harry tried to memorise their faces and names. Gentley, a man with salt and pepper hair and sunken cheeks, nodded his head as silently as the class he taught, clearly not having anything to add.

"Defense and Offense classes will be supervised by Aurors Wickley and Haff."

Wickley and Haff looked like two birds of prey. They both had long dark hair tied back from their faces, sharp, angular features, and deep-set scowls.

"Lessons in Concealment and Disguise, as well as Stealth and Tracking will be given by Auror Sylwen."

Sylwen was the one who kept giving Seamus hard looks. She was a tall, bony witch with gliterring black eyes that rested heavily on Harry as she stepped forward, as though doubting that Harry could ever be stealthy. Or unrecognisable.

To be fair, Harry privately agreed.

He tuned out Robards' voice as he went on explaining, because he was already wondering what the hell he was doing here. The cold Ministry hallways, the looks people kept shooting at him, the unfriendliness of this whole thing – how was it supposed to compare to the familiarity of Hogwarts?

Ron fidgeted nervously beside him, but at least he wasn't muttering Voldemort's name over and over again.

* * *

><p>"Did you ever think we would marry, Draco?"<p>

His fingers curled into a loose fist. "Yes," he said cautiously. "I did."

"So did I. I just kind of lived with that feeling. A certainty. I never really imagined it otherwise, and I was content with it." Pansy was silent for a moment. "You were my best friend."

That stung, because if there were two words Draco had never associated with anyone, those two words were _best friend_. He hadn't considered himself close enough to anyone to consider them a best friend; _but_, he thought musingly, if he _had_ had a best friend all these years, then the only person it could have been was Pansy, because Pansy he could share things with on a more intellectual, emotional level than with either Goyle or – or _Crabbe_. And Pansy had fawned over him and loved him no matter what he did or how he treated her, and in the end he'd treated her better than anyone else, just for that. He'd also treated her worse than anyone else.

"I still am your friend. I always will be, Pansy."

She shook her head; her short, sleek black hair moved only slightly. The rejection hurt.

"Do you hate me?"

She let out a small puff of air. "Only because I was in love with you, once."

Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment, remembering all that once was, all that could have been. Maybe they would have married, had pure-blood children, and then grown old and become sick of each other and made each other's lives hell. Maybe he would have been a cheater, maybe Pansy would have watched and known but always stood by him. Or maybe he would have fallen in love with her, too. Maybe they would have been happy.

"At Hogwarts, I remember... all the little things that made me fall for you. You're not a very likeable person, Draco. But I noticed things, and I couldn't stop thinking about them, and I liked you. I remember the way you would kick everyone out of your dorm when you were studying. I always came up just to watch you, and you let me. I remember you being cruel to me, and then apologising. I remember telling you you needed a cut when your hair started to hang in front of your eyes, but I think I actually liked it that way." She reached out with one hand, the one that wasn't in Draco's, and lightly skimmed his hair with it. "You've let yourself go, but... It suits you long."

"No, it needs a cut."

"Maybe just a little bit. It was long enough to frame your jaw in fourth year, when – do you remember the Yule Ball?"

Draco laughed lightly. "Of course I do. I was tactless."

_"Who are you going with?"_

_"You, of course,"_ Draco had said, genuinely surprised by the question. _"Who else?"_ Then he'd realised his mistake. _"Unless you already have a date..."_

Pansy had jutted her chin out. _"Someone asked me already."_

_"Oh."_

_"But I said no,"_ she had said.

_"Oh."_

_"I was hoping you would ask."_

_"I didn't think."_

"I think you were pretty sweet, actually," Pansy said.

_"Why did you assume we would go together?"_

_"Because..."_ Draco had hesitated. _"Because I can't think of anyone else I would want to go with."_

"You never loved me, did you?"

"It was true, what I told you," he said. "There was no one else I would have gone with if you hadn't been there."

"I was convenient."

"No," he said. "You weren't just 'convenient.' We were... friends."

"Friends," Pansy echoed. "Yes, we were." She inspected her nails, trimmed short and neat. "What about after the Yule Ball? Do you remember that?"

Draco swallowed. "Yes."

_"Draco, I love you."_

"You never did say it back."

He brought her fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, putting all the silent apology he could into the gesture. Her eyelids lowered; her voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke.

"I could tell, you know. I always knew exactly what you felt."

A ring glinted on her finger, bulky and manly, too harsh for her slender hand. She caught his gaze and pulled her hand away, the moment broken; she leaned back in her chair, closed off from him.

"It was my father's. He's not really going to need it anymore, is he? He gave it to me after his trial."

Impulsively, Draco slid one of his rings off, a similarly heavy, thick band of platinum with the family crest engraved on it. A Malfoy's ring, given to him for his seventeenth – as though it were a meaningful present, as though the Malfoy name still meant anything. He slid it across the table towards Pansy.

"I'm not going to need this anymore, either."

She stared at it, and then her gaze flickered upwards to meet his, heavy with reproach. "You can't just give this away."

"I don't want it."

Those were the wrong words; Pansy's eyes flashed.

"I'm not a– don't give it to me just to get rid of it. Don't give it to me, unless it means something."

"It means... It means that the Draco Malfoy who would have worn that ring and been proud of it is gone. The Draco Malfoy you knew and, maybe, loved, is gone. That's what it means. That's why I want you to have it. To remember... a friend." _All that once was, and all that could have been._

She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then her hand snaked out and her fingers closed around the ring. "Then I'll take it."

"Thank you."

She eyed him oddly. "I'd say you're welcome, but I'm not sure I'm doing you a favour. You would never have given this to me if... if things were still the way they used to be. It's strange, isn't it? How much our lives have changed in just one year. Just one night," she corrected. "Just one night, and everything changed."

The night of the Final Battle. Draco felt his gut clench and struggled to keep his features impassive.

"It all changed," she said again. "For both of us. Except one of us made it through, and the other..."

"We're both here," he said. "We've both made it through."

"That's what you think. My father is in Azkaban, Draco."

"I know." There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"I should... I could... They put _me_ on trial, too," she said. Tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn't let a single one spill over. She looked away, her jaw set. "I thought I was going to... I thought they would..."

"But they didn't. They didn't, Pansy."

"No," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "They didn't. Because I didn't _do_ anything, did I? I only wanted to survive, even if it was at Potter's expense. All I wanted was to survive. But I never actually broke the law. _You_ did, though."

He set his jaw. "Pansy –"

"You _did_," Pansy said. "I saw you. You did _awful_ things, Draco, and they didn't even..." Her voice broke. "What about your father? Why is my father in Azkaban while yours is free?

"Why did Potter save you?"

He knew she meant the trials, but his mind immediately jumped to something else. He kept having dreams – no, nightmares. Were they still nightmares if they ended well? Were they even dreams if they were true?

He would be in the Room of Requirement, surrounded by flames and heat and fear, holding on for dear life. And, Salazar, Draco would hate fire _forever_; he was afraid, he knew he was going to die – and then there was Potter's face, his mouth falling open as he spotted Draco, cheeks flushed from the heat, eyes darting left and right in indecision. Draco stared at him, almost wanting to laugh at the fucking _irony_ of it all – of course Potter would be there to watch him die – and he didn't understand that _look_ in Potter's eyes and fuck, there was _no way_ he was going to die while staring at Potter's eyes. He tore his gaze away, looking down instead, down at the fire that threatened to leap up and devour him, and his eyes snapped up again, meeting Potter's desperately – _yes_, Potter was that much of a hero and _yes_, he was that good a flyer, he _had_ to be...

Sometimes he woke up then, breathless, covered in sweat, his heart still pounding. Other times he woke later, when in the dream (because by that point it wasn't a nightmare anymore) his arms were around Potter, his torso pressed to his Saviour's back. He wasn't sure which ending scared him more.

Pansy stood from her chair and leaned forward across the table. "Draco, look at me."

He raised his head to meet her eyes; he knew her next question before she spoke.

"Why did _you_ save him?"

And he looked at her, and he knew the answer, but he couldn't voice it aloud. He could hardly stand to think it.

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><p><strong>So, what did you think about Pansy? What I love about her is that she can be anything. We know so little about her - that she's a bit of a bully, and she adores Draco. And she can just be so complex if you want her to be...<strong>

**In the next chapter, titled **Stars**, Draco and Harry meet again - because that's what we really want to see. Have a sneak peek - I promise it's coming soon:**

Potter didn't offer a _thank you_. He didn't say anything, just stared at Draco, and Draco knew that there was only one thing he wanted to say: _Why?_


	7. Stars

**As always, thank you! This chapter is a more... digestable length. Tell me what you think!**

**By this time next week the next chapter should be up, titled **Scar**.**

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><p><span><strong>Stars<strong>

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><p>One week had passed since the last visit from the Auror Office. Draco steeled himself for it as soon as he woke up, determined to keep his emotions in check. The cold fury, the humiliation. He couldn't let them bleed through.<p>

His parents were mostly all right that day, especially his mother. She had had the house-elves prepare breakfast as usual, was dressed, and had put on both a touch of jewellery and makeup. Her hair was tied back into a sleek bun, and though her cheekbones were a little more prominent than they had used to be, she looked – and acted, and spoke – like her old self. Draco almost stopped breathing when she greeted him with a hug, but he deliberately squashed his own hopes. It was likely that the next day, she would be lost again.

She had forgotten the makeup on her right eye.

They weren't crazy, he told himself. They were broken, but they were on the mend.

It wasn't like there was a Mind Healer out there willing to look at the Malfoys, anyway.

His father was silent and surly again today, but it was a quiet anger that he had under control. When he spoke, it was brief and clipped, but not aggressive. Not so different from his real self. Draco thought he saw him smile slightly when he looked at Narcissa, and it warmed his heart. Still, he didn't want to let an Auror talk to them right now. He didn't want the Ministry to upset the fragile balance his mother seemed to have found, or to provoke his father into full-blown fury with their questions that always threatened to turn into taunts. So after breakfast he made sure they went back to their rooms, or the library, or somewhere – just not anywhere near the entrance hall or the drawing rooms.

It was a little before noon when the gate informed him that an Auror was requesting entrance. He stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in in the main drawing room and slowly walked down the hall to the door, then opened it.

"Hello," Potter said as he strode inside.

Draco wasn't even surprised. "Hello. Do you want another tour of the house?"

Potter shook his head. "I'm not going to do a detailed full-house check every time I visit. Not physically, anyway. Magic will suffice."

"The drawing room it is, then. If you can conduct your 'check' from there."

"I can."

Draco started heading for the second drawing room. Potter fell in step with him, shooting furtive glances at the portraits which lined the walls. Draco wondered what he found so interesting about them but kept his tongue.

They didn't sit down this time, which defeated the point of bringing Potter to the room. Draco watched silently as the trainee Auror began muttering under his breath, casting detection spells. The sight of his wand made Draco remember the ones that Potter had returned to him. He frowned.

"So what happened to getting a replacement?" he asked, keeping his tone conversational.

"Turns out no one was eager to take the assignment. It's not exactly the most fascinating thing an Auror-in-training can do, you know. And I don't know many people willing to put up with you."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" Potter said distractedly as he traced the wall with the tip of his wand, his back to Draco.

"Willing to put up with me."

Potter shrugged. "We have to grow up someday."

He moved his hand in a strange, jerky pattern, and Draco felt a shiver run through him as the spell washed over the Manor, cold and probing as tentacles. He resisted the urge to wince.

"That's what you call this, then? Growing up?"

Potter glanced back at him. "Maybe."

"I didn't think it would be like this."

"Yeah, neither did I." Potter looked back at the wall. "But it could have been worse."

It felt like a slap in the face. Draco gritted his teeth together, knowing Potter was deliberately reminding him that he had saved the family from Azkaban.

"Yeah," he said bitingly, "it could. You could be _dead_."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could take them back. Potter froze, then turned around to meet his gaze. Something passed between them in that glance, a hint of mocking, perhaps. _Never knew you cared_, Draco could almost hear, and really – since when _did_ he care?

"Yeah, I could be," Potter said after a moment. "But I'm not."

He didn't offer a _thank you_. He didn't say anything, just stared at Draco, and Draco knew that there was only one thing he wanted to say: _Why?_

Draco almost wanted to tell him, then, what had been going on through his mind at that moment. _I didn't have a choice. I didn't do it for you._ But maybe it was a good idea to have Potter believe he had a shred of humanity inside him that was worth saving.

Draco looked away first. "So what's it like? Training, I mean."

Potter turned back to what he had been doing, the moment shattered. "It's all right."

"That's it?"

"What do you want to know?"

"There must be _something_ to tell. I mean, it's, you know. _Auror_ training."

Potter shrugged. "It's just... classes."

"Yeah? You must be pretty bad at it, then."

Potter hummed noncommittally. "It's a bit more hands-on than at Hogwarts. There's a lot of theory, but you can see where it's going to lead. It's like there's a point to everything you learn, you know? So it's okay, actually." Draco thought he could hear the smile in Potter's voice, even though the future Auror had his back to him. "I kind of like duelling, even if the instructors think I'm full of myself. They keep saying I need to work harder, and not rely only on my reflexes."

Draco himself almost smiled at that. "Duelling, huh?"

"Reminds you of our second year, doesn't it?"

"When you spoke to that snake."

"Well, yeah, that part, too, I suppose. I was thinking more of the _'Scared, Potter?'_ bit, though."

At that, Draco _did_ smile. "That was fun. I bet you _were_ scared, though."

"Whatever you say."

That brought him up short. "What?" An attack on that Gryffindor courage couldn't just be ignored.

"Like I said, Malfoy. We have to grow up someday." Potter put his wand away and turned back to face him. He was still smiling. "Besides, maybe I _was_ a little scared."

Draco didn't really know what to think about the words, or the disturbing fact that Potter was smiling at him. "Are you done?" he asked.

"Not yet. Can I speak to your parents?"

"No," Draco said immediately, "you can't."

Potter marked a pause. "Why not? I'm supposed to, you know. I let it slide last time, but if this is to go on –"

"How long?" Draco asked. "How long will the Ministry be checking up on us?"

"I don't know. A year, maybe more. Maybe a lot more. I'm going to have to talk to them one day, you know."

"Not today."

Potter leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Because I say so."

Because his parents weren't in any state to be talking to Potter.

"They haven't been out of the house. The wards we've set around here would have told us if they had. What are you so worried about?"

"I'm not _worried_."

"Yes, you are."

Draco was silent.

Potter looked at him speculatively, then shrugged. He moved forward and sank down into one of the chairs around the table, as though he was tired of the subject.

"You're lucky I _didn't_ find a replacement, you know," he said slowly. "I'm probably the only one at the Auror Office who would put up with this."

"Like you're doing me a _favour_," Draco snapped. "What, am I supposed to be _grateful_ that you're going to check up on us every week?"

"No, but you could be grateful that you're not in Azkaban," Potter said hotly. "I did everything I could to keep your sorry ass out of prison – and your parents, too, even though Merlin knows your father didn't exactly deserve it, did he?"

Draco brought his hands down on his lap; they were shaking with anger. "Don't you _dare_ bring my parents into this, Potter. You didn't do this for them. The only reason you bothered to testify at their trials is that you've been obsessed with _me_ for years. Saint Potter, my eye. What about Pansy? What about Theo? Not worth your time, were they?"

Potter looked unsettled, as though he hadn't even realised that he could have helped anyone else. When he spoke, his tone was calm and even again, all traces of his former irritation gone. "Neither of them saved my life."

Draco averted his gaze, his anger fading abruptly, replaced by a sense of uneasiness. "I didn't, either."

"You did. Twice."

"Are you talking about what happened here? I tried not to be the cause of your death," he snapped. "There's a difference."

"Not in my book. Not when you and I were –"

"When we were _what_?" Draco asked. "You've said it yourself. We weren't enemies. We were _nothing_. Nothing at all. But _you_ were obsessed with _me_."

A faint flush darkened Potter's cheeks. "I didn't –" he began hotly, then seemed to change his mind. "Let's not argue about this," he said. "That's not what I came here for. You're right. We were nothing. And yet you saved my life."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let's not pretend anymore," Potter said. "You know I don't mean what happened here in your other drawing room. I meant –"

"I know what you meant."

"When I saw you there, I –"

"Shut _up_, Potter."

And he did, but not without looking intently at Draco. Draco couldn't stand it. It felt as though Potter wanted to pierce his soul, read his thoughts, know what had been going on in his head at that moment. But unless he asked, Draco wouldn't say a word. He didn't think he had come to terms with it yet.

"Malfoy, can I –"

"I'm not expecting you to say thank you."

"I wasn't going to," Potter snapped. "I just –" He shook his head. "Forget it, okay?"

"Gladly."

"I bet," Potter muttered, but he dropped the subject. "So. Your parents. Next time?"

"Possibly."

Potter looked surprised. "Really?"

"It could happen."

"Aren't you going to tell me why?"

For a moment, Draco thought he meant the Battle again; then he realised they were still talking about his parents. "No."

Potter shook his head, then gave him a speculative look. "Are they... are _you_ all right, Malfoy? Something seems off about you."

"And you've noticed, have you? What do you know about me, Potter?"

A grin. "Probably a hell of a lot more than I should."

Draco looked at him. "Probably. But that's not the point."

"_Something_'s wrong, though."

"Look, Potter, I'm not in the mood for a heart-to-heart with you. Not now, and probably not ever, for obvious reasons."

Potter grimaced, but he didn't insist. He looked out the window.

"You know, they didn't go to Azkaban."

Draco's eyes shot to his. "What?"

"Parkinson... and Nott. You mentioned them earlier. Well, they didn't get sentenced to Azkaban."

He did know, but he was surprised that Potter did. And seemed to care.

"That's good."

"Well, it's not like... I mean, they didn't actually break the law."

Pansy's words from the other day came back to him. _"All I wanted was to survive. But I never actually broke the law."_

"I feel kind of bad that they were in Azkaban at all," Potter admitted. "Since they didn't really do anything. But it wasn't my choice. I wasn't even aware of it. For a week, I didn't even know _you_ were in Azkaban." He looked directly at Draco as he spoke.

Draco could tell it was important for him to say the words, but they meant nothing to him. What did he care, whether Potter had known or not that he was being subjected to the Dementors' presence?

"At least _I_ deserved it."

Potter bit his lip. It was obvious that wasn't the answer he had been hoping for.

"You didn't."

"How many people do you know who agree with that?"

Potter seemed to honestly think about it. "Three... maybe four. I suppose."

"Point proven."

Potter shook his head. "You couldn't just make this easy, could you?" he asked, as though it were all Draco's fault.

"_I_ couldn't make it easy? _I_'m not the one who chose to come here to laugh at you in your own home every week."

"It's not like that," Potter snapped. "It's _not_. I didn't decide to come to have a good laugh or to torment you. You're _lucky_ it was me, because someone else just might have done that. But my life does not revolve around you, and I don't care about _getting revenge_ or anything like that. All I care about is making sure your family won't hurt anyone ever again. Because that's my job. And my job includes having to talk with your parents. And if I have to blast you aside to get to them, then I'm not going to let that be an obstacle."

Draco felt his jaw clench. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"You're a Gryffindor," Draco said, trying to convince himself. "You wouldn't attack a defenseless wizard. I can't use any magic against you without landing myself in Azkaban."

"Yourself _and_ your parents," Potter reminded him.

Draco felt anger tear through him like fire at the words. Without taking his eyes off Potter, he surged forward and slammed his hand down on the table between them.

"Don't you _dare_ bring them into this again! I told you – not them! They don't have _anything_ to do with this – this is all about you and me."

"No," Potter said coolly. He looked stricken, but determined. "It isn't. It isn't about me, and it isn't even about you. It's about your family." He eyed Draco's hand. "And you're not helping them by acting like this."

"I'm trying to protect them," he said, grinding the words out through clenched teeth, and instantly realised it was the wrong thing to say.

Potter's eyes narrowed. "Protect them from what?"

"Nothing," Draco said, biting back a curse. _Idiot._ "I just... just..."

Potter waited, but Draco offered nothing more. Potter looked at him appraisingly and, then, to his surprise, nodded.

"All right. But next time, Malfoy –"

"I understand." Then, before Potter could leave, he asked the question that had been burning on his lips, for his mother's sake. "What happened to my aunt?"

Potter looked up quizzically. "Your...?"

"My aunt," he repeated. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Something flickered in Potter's expression. "She died," he said carefully.

"I know that," Draco said, gritting his teeth. He'd been there, he'd _seen_. "But her body –"

"Oh." Potter seemed to understand. "She was... buried."

"Where?"

"The..." Potter hesitated. "On the grounds of Azkaban."

Draco lost his balance; stars erupted before his eyes and he reached out a hand to catch himself against the wall, feeling sick. It wasn't like him to lose control, but this, how could he hear _this_ without wanting to throw up? All that time spent in Azkaban, and Bellatrix's corpse had been lying just a few feet away, rotting slowly below the earth, and his mother had so desperately wanted to know what had happened to her sister's body, and now... how could he ever tell her? The entire world shifted, and he closed his eyes.

"Malfoy?" Potter sounded concerned.

"Give me a second." He took a deep, shuddering breath and brushed the memories of the Dementors away, opening his eyes again. "Is there..." he began, then swore when he heard the tremor in his voice. "Could we have her moved?"

Potter looked at him as though he had grown a second head. "Moved?" he repeated.

"She was my _aunt_," Draco said. "My mother's sister. I don't care what she was to _you_, Potter; she was family."

Potter started to say something, but changed his mind mid-sentence. "I don't thin – I'll have to see with the Ministry. I... it should be possible."

His eyes searched Draco's face for a reaction, latching onto grey eyes for a moment before he nodded briefly. Draco almost asked what he thought he'd found, because he was certain he'd let nothing slip past his mask, but suddenly all he wanted was for Potter to leave.

Because, for a brief moment, he could have sworn he had _felt_ Potter's concern and sympathy, wrapping around his own horror, and that was impossible.


	8. Scar

**Hi again! Thanks for coming back. Quite a few of you have Alert'ed this fic, I hope you're happy with the rate of the updates. And thank you to my lovely two loyal reviewers. You make my day every time.**

**In this chapter, Hermione notices something important, Draco is definitely not going back to Hogwarts, and Ginny and Harry don't make sense.**

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><p><span><strong>Scar<strong>

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><p>Harry woke up at six the next morning, courtesy of his new Auror training-imposed habits. He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again, but couldn't manage to. At seven he rolled out of bed with a groan, knowing the night was over. He felt tired, but something in him refused to go to sleep. Merlin, couldn't he even sleep in on weekends anymore?<p>

He trudged downstairs in his pajamas wearily, trying not to make too much noise. The stairs creaked under his weight.

"Harry?" a voice called softly from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"At this hour, it couldn't be Ron," he replied, smiling tiredly as Hermione appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing you already up?"

She shrugged. Her hair was almost as messy as Harry's, but she was dressed and looked wide awake. "I couldn't sleep. You?"

"The same. Tried to but couldn't."

She stepped aside to let him maneuver around her and into the kitchen, moving over to the counter. "Do you want coffee?"

"I really don't need anything to keep me awake," he answered. "If you have a Sleeping Draught, I'm all ears."

"Sorry, I don't think we have any of that in the cupboards," Hermione said. "Pumpkin juice?"

"I could live with that."

He took the bottle she was holding out to him and poured himself a glass, swirling it around a little before gulping it down. "Pumpkin juice always reminds me of Hogwarts," he said, setting the glass on the counter again.

"Me too," Hermione said. A soft smile touched her lips. "At home, we only had orange juice and hot chocolate. Pumpkin juice always had that special feel to it."

"Magical," Harry agreed.

"Ron would think we were crazy. It's just juice."

He poured himself another glass. "It's different for Ron."

"Yeah." Hermione was silent for a moment. "Do you ever feel like... like we've had two lives? The second one started when we were eleven years old and discovered a separate world. I used to think I loved this world, loved being a witch, but..." She shook her head helplessly. "Everything is so difficult right now. I don't think it would ever have hurt this much if I hadn't been a witch."

He set the glass down and looked at her. "You're an amazing witch, Hermione. You could never not be one."

"I know," she said. "But don't you ever wonder? What it could be like?"

He was silent for a moment. "Not really," he said finally. "It's not the same for me. I... I was never happy before I knew I was a wizard. And I could never turn my back on the world my parents came from. This is the place for me, Hermione. I wouldn't have it any other way."

"You wouldn't change it? Not any of it? Not the fear, the deaths, You-Know-Who? Nothing?"

He looked down at the counter. "I can't."

"But if you could?"

"It's no use thinking like that, Hermione," he said harshly, cutting his eyes to her. "Of course I wish Fred, Remus, Tonks... I wish they hadn't died. Of course I do. But they did, and there's nothing we can do about it. But we put an end to it. We stopped Voldemort."

Her eyes shone with tears. "Then why don't I feel happy? Why don't I feel like we've succeeded? Why does it feel like the world is even worse than before?"

"You're not supposed to be happy," he told her. "Not for a long time. But someday, maybe."

Hermione dragged the back of her hand against her eyes, brushing the tears away. "That isn't very encouraging."

He shrugged. "It's the best I can do." He nodded at the table, which was bare. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No, I only got up fifteen minutes ago." She managed a weak smile. "I'm starving, but I don't think there's much to eat."

"I think we still have muffins or something," Harry said, crouching to open a cupboard. He closed it quickly and opened another one. "Yeah, they're here." He took out a paper-wrapped muffin and tossed it to Hermione. "Hope you like blueberry."

"It'll do."

Harry heard the paper crinkle as she unwrapped the muffin. He stood up straight again and walked over to the table to sit down, leaning back into the chair, closing his eyes. The sound of a chair being scraped back told him Hermione had sat down across from him. He opened one eye to look at her.

"How is it going, with – you know... Malfoy?" she asked after a moment.

"Badly," Harry said, stretching his arms out over his head and yawning. "We got into a little argument yesterday – think I was lucky he can't use magic against me."

Hermione rested her chin on her hand and blew out a sigh. "It's that bad, then?"

"You don't seem surprised."

She had already finished the muffin, but she didn't get up to take another one. "I was expecting it. It is, after all, Malfoy. With you."

"Yeah, you're right. It wouldn't be him if it weren't a bit difficult, would it? But it wasn't even... I mean, I don't go out of my way to get on his nerves anymore or anything. It was... It was about his parents, actually."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing!" he protested. "I didn't do anything. He won't let me talk to them."

Her eyes widened and she sat up straight. "But he can't do that. The agreement that they signed says that –"

"He knows what they signed, Hermione. He just doesn't care."

"Well he _should_," Hermione said indignantly. "You could tell the Auror Office that he was refusing to respect the contract and that would be the end of it. He would go back to Azkaban!"

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"_I_ know," she said, "but does Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "If he doesn't, then he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does. I mean – how could he think I'd do that? I know we hated each other for years at Hogwarts, but we were kids. I would never have gone out of my way to _seriously_ mess his life up. He probably would have, though, if he'd had the chance."

Hermione looked at him. "You can't really think that."

"He's not really giving me a choice."

"He saved your life, Harry."

"The way he acts, I don't get the feeling that he _meant_ to do it."

"You mean he didn't do it on purpose?" Hermione shook her head. "That's just stupid. You saw how he threw himself in front of you and threw you the wand. The way he shouted your name. That was no accident."

"I know, but..." Harry shrugged. "I just get the feeling that he _regrets_ it. Like he would rather I'd died or something."

"That's horrible."

He tried to smile. "Well, it is Malfoy we're talking about."

"Why do you think he did it, then?" Hermione asked. "It was all so sudden. He risked his life to save yours, even though he was never on our side."

"I don't know, Hermione. I really don't know. And I don't think he does, either. We still don't like each other."

"You should make an effort to be pleasant. You may be the Saviour of the wizarding world, but he saved _you_, too."

Harry grimaced. "The _Prophet_ came up with that, didn't it? 'The Saviour.' Merlin."

"Well, you are."

He waved the subject away. "I have better things to do than discuss Malfoy. You're going back to Hogwarts this week, aren't you?"

Hermione's face lit up. "Yes."

"I wish I could be there to see you off," Harry said wistfully. "Ron is going to feel so bad about it, too."

"I know. He's told me." She blushed. "He made himself very... clear."

"I don't want to know," Harry told her, making her laugh. He grinned. "I bet now he regrets joining Auror training instead of going back to Hogwarts with you."

Hermione shook her head. "He could never have gone back to school. It's where..." _Where Fred died._

Harry swallowed. "I know. But he'll miss you when you're gone. We both will."

"We'll see each other at Christmas," Hermione said. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

"I know you will. Look after Ginny for me, will you?"

Hermione smiled warmly at him. "I promise."

"I mean, she's tough, but..." Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. "It's just... I don't know how she's dealing with all of this, really. And Fred..."

"Don't worry," Hermione said again. "We'll be together. She'll pull through. You haven't talked to her in a while, have you?"

"I haven't been to the Burrow lately. I'll see her at dinner tonight. We need to talk, anyway."

"You've been saying that since the Battle."

"It just... never seems to be the right time." He smiled. "Besides, it's not like you and Ron. Ginny and I, we missed out on a lot this year. Which was my fault," he added hurriedly, raising his left hand to stop Hermione from saying anything. "I know. But it's still pretty difficult. It's different."

He expected Hermione to give him solid advice, to reassure him.

"Harry, what's that?" she asked sharply, reaching up to take the hand he was holding up.

She turned his hand around so that his palm was facing upward. Harry glanced down at what had caught her attention – a scratch in the middle of his palm he imagined he had obtained during the Battle, or on the run. A smattering of pinpricks which, if you played connect the dots, outlined the vague form of a flawed number eight. It shimmered slightly, like a burn scar, but Harry couldn't remember having been burnt recently. Maybe it came from Crabbe's Fiendfyre, or from Bellatrix's vault.

"Where did you get this?"

"Gosh, Hermione, I really don't know," Harry said, feeling inexplicably annoyed as he pulled his hand back. "Maybe when we were busy fighting for our lives or something? Do you think it could possibly have been then?"

Hermione frowned at him, letting him know she didn't find his sarcasm amusing, but she quickly glanced down at his palm again. "This reminds me of something," she said, and had that look on her face that meant she was going through her mental library to look it up.

Harry closed his fingers into a loose fist, hiding the scar. "I'm sure it's not the first time you've seen the number eight, and it isn't the first scar you've seen on me, either. Of course it reminds you of something."

"That's not it," Hermione said, eyes still on his hand as though she thought the intensity of her gaze could allow her to see through Harry's flesh and bone to the scar. "I've seen that somewhere, I know I have."

"Leave it alone, Hermione," he said. "It's just a scar. Want to see the one I have on my forehead? I'm sure you could look up some interesting things about that one, too."

She gave him a dirty look, but then her expression cleared and she laughed aloud, giving in.

* * *

><p>Draco's parents were getting better, which was both a blessing and a curse. He was glad, of course. Relieved. But at the same time, now that his parents had a firmer hold on their sanity, little things kept coming back to Draco. The little things they had always nagged him about. For some reason, his mother still seemed to think he was a normal eighteen-year-old. She pressed him to keep in touch with Pansy, invited Theo over without telling him, and introduced him to pure-blood Astoria Greengrass, who had been two years below him at Hogwarts and whose mother was a distant relative of one or the other of his parents (or, most likely, both).<p>

Needless to say, he hadn't contacted Pansy even once, that half-hour with Theo had been extremely awkward until he'd finally told his "friend" to leave, and as for Astoria... Well, he'd had the good grace not to dismiss her himself, and they had had a long, exceedingly polite conversation about everything under the moon except the obvious issues. He had seen her eyes slide down to his left forearm and linger there. He had pushed his sleeve up and let her see the Dark Mark, and she had gone white and stuttering. He hadn't said anything, just watched her coolly until she excused herself.

He wondered whether she had thought he was proud of it. Some people still thought that, didn't they? Thought he was _proud_ of what he had done. But that was his own fault. He had _bragged _about having the Mark, at first. He remembered that much. To Pansy. No wonder she resented him his freedom. He had been despicable. He probably still was, but at least now he was aware of it. He wasn't proud of himself anymore.

His mother still was, though. Proud and determined that her son lead a normal life. She kept telling him he'd been 'brave' and 'strong' and that he had done everything he could under the circumstances. _"Yes,"_ Draco had agreed once, _"Everything I could to harm people."_ Her newest fancy was that he should return to Hogwarts and finish his studies like everyone else.

_"Not going to happen,"_ Draco had said the first time she brought it up. _"No. No way."_

He had said it practically every day since then, because his mother kept insisting. Like right now, at breakfast, on a Sunday morning.

"The train leaves this week," Narcissa said. "And you will be on it."

He raised his head, gave her a look, then stared back down at his plate. Sliced bread suddenly seemed fascinating.

"I know you've said you don't want to, but it's important. It wouldn't be so hard. It would just be like every other year you've spent there. Pansy, Blaise and Theodore are returning. I think you should be with them."

"Yeah? Have you asked them what they think about that?"

"They're your friends. They're worried about you. You need your friends at times like these, Draco. If you keep brushing them off like you've been doing, you'll have none left."

He ignored her, pushing bread crumbs around with his knife instead.

"Severus would want you to go back. _Dumbledore_ would want you to go back."

"Well that's the first time _Dumbledore_'s opinion has been used as the argument of authority in this house," he snapped. "Listen, Mother, they're both _dead_ now. Shows how much their opinion mattered, doesn't it?"

"Don't talk like that, Draco," Narcissa said harshly. "Remember all Severus did for you –"

"None of that matters anymore! It wasn't enough, and he's not around to do anything about it."

"If he_ were_ – and _that_'s what matters –, then he would tell you exactly what I'm saying right now. Go back, Draco. It's not too late. You can still go back –"

"I don't want to, Mother. No one wants me to."

"_I_ do. Please, Draco."

He looked up at her dispassionately. "Do you know who will be there?" He raised a finger to indicate the number one. "Hermione Granger, for starters. Remember her? Remember when I watched as Aunt Bellatrix tortured her? I'm sure _she_ remembers." He lifted a second finger. "Luna Lovegood. She spents a few weeks in our cellar recently, you know." A third finger. "Ginny Weasley. The Carrows made me torture her last year because she was a member of the DA. And –"

"Please don't," Narcissa said, her eyes filling with tears. "Stop it, Draco. None of that was _you_. None of it was your fault."

"All of it was my fault," he snapped. "And they all know it. Don't you see there's no way I _can_ go back? I can't –" His voice broke. "I can't face them. Any of them. Pansy –"

"Pansy adores you."

"She also hates me."

His mother changed her tack. "The Ministry would approve, you know. It's the perfect place for you to be. Hogwarts has always been the safest place in the country."

"Until I managed to smuggle Death Eaters in and kill the headmaster, you mean."

"You didn't kill him."

"You're right. _Snape_ did."

"Don't talk about him like that. He was a good man. He looked out for you and he was good to our family."

"That hardly qualifies him for sainthood, though, does it?"

Narcissa pressed her lips together in a thin line. "That's enough, Draco."

He shoved his plate away, pushed his chair back, and stood up. "You're right. It's more than enough. It's no use pretending we can have a normal life anymore, Mother. I'm _not_ going back."

_I won't leave you two alone at Potter's mercy_, he thought as he strode out of the room.

"I'm only trying to help you, Draco," she called after him, but he ignored her. "Why won't you let me?"

* * *

><p>Ginny sat down next to Harry at the table that evening, which he took to be a good sign. Their hands brushed as they ate, making them glance surreptitiously at each other. Harry savoured the light, friendly contact and when, before dessert was served, Ginny closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, he jumped as though he were still sixteen and worrying about his feelings for his best friend's sister. He almost wrapped his arm around her shoulders but decided against it and instead just looked down at her, smiling. He wasn't used to weary, unsmiling, <em>vulnerable<em> Ginny, but at that moment he thought he probably wouldn't mind getting used to her. It would just take some time.

And she did smile when after dinner, he asked her if they could talk.

"We always say that, don't we?"

Harry thought she was brushing him off, but then she added, "Outside?"

He followed her out the door. She didn't take his hand. They sat down in the grass, cross-legged, facing each other.

"I'll miss you," Ginny said before he could say anything. "At Hogwarts."

He looked into her eyes. "So will I."

"I missed you last year."

"So did I."

"I was afraid you would die."

He was quiet for a moment. "… So was I."

Ginny hesitated, then looked down at the grass. "You did die, right? In the Forest?"

"Yes. I told you." And she was the only person she'd told, besides Ron and Hermione.

"But you came back."

"Yes."

She wouldn't ask how, she wouldn't ask what it had felt like. A part of Harry desperately wanted her to, just to know that she cared, but – the rest of him never wanted to tell her.

"A part of you died back there, didn't it?"

"No. It was –" The words tasted foul in his mouth – "a part of Voldemort."

Ginny looked at him searchingly. "But it was inside _you_, right?"

He ground his teeth together, then forced his jaw to relax before answering as steadily as he could. This wasn't something he wanted to become public knowledge, either. "Yes."

"And that's why your scar used to hurt, and you could see what he was doing?"

"I think so."

Then she asked the question they'd both been avoiding since the first time he'd told her about the Horcrux inside him. "So are you – _different_? Now that he's no longer..." She trailed off.

"Maybe."

Ginny nodded like she understood. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"All that, pretty much."

They exchanged a small smile.

"And also," Harry added, "That you had better beat Slytherin in the Quidditch Cup. I'm counting on you... Captain."

She grinned, a genuine smile that showed a flash of white teeth in the darkness of the night. She had received the badge along with her Hogwarts letter and it had been decisive in her choice to return to the school.

"We'll massacre them," she promised.

"I also wanted to tell you that I'll miss you."

"You already said that," she pointed out.

"Well, don't forget it."

"I couldn't." She paused. "You... Will you be at the platform? When we leave, I mean?"

Harry shook his head regretfully. "I can't. I'll have classes. I'm sorry."

"So this is good-bye?"

Something heavy settled in his stomach as he looked at her, taking in the way the darkness cast shadows across her face and made her eyes seem black as night. "Yeah, I s'pose."

She leaned in and kissed him then, a hot, burning kiss that tasted of pain and bitterness and blame. It felt empty somehow, unsatisfying.

And when they went back inside, they still didn't hold hands.

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter (still within a week!), Harry and Draco are face-to-face again. It's also the chapter that gave this fic its name. <strong>Temporary Insanity**, indeed. You have to love these guys.**


	9. Temporary Insanity

**Draco loses his temper. Harry is mostly amused.**

**This time, I can't absolutely promise to have the next chapter up by this time next week, because I'm not absolutely sure I'll have access to the Internet. But it will be two weeks, tops, and most likely less than that.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Blame It on Temporary Insanity<span>**

* * *

><p>The next time Harry stopped by Malfoy Manor, he was allowed inside without discussion.<p>

"So it's official, then," Malfoy said resignedly. "I'm stuck with you."

"I meant it when I said no one else wanted the job," Harry replied as they walked toward the drawing room.

He noticed for the first time that their strides matched, long and steady. He saw Malfoy surreptitiously glance at him out of the corner of his eye, then scowl, and knew the blond had realised the same thing. Harry didn't think they'd ever walked side by side like this before.

The thought amused him. It was strange, really. Malfoy could still infuriate him, but the edge of that anger was gone. He said or did things that left Harry feeling vaguely annoyed, even angry, but it never lasted long. And there was always that underlying gratitude and a sense that really, Malfoy couldn't hate him as much as he claimed to. He had, after all, saved his life. This soft amusement was maybe more frequent than the anger.

Malfoy would hate that. The thought made Harry smile.

Malfoy caught it, and his scowl deepened. "Well aren't we happy today," he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Are you looking forward to going through my sock drawer in search of Dark Artefacts?"

"No thanks," Harry said. He let his smile fade to appease Malfoy. "I'll stay in the drawing room, if it's all the same for you."

"You're not very thorough about this whole probation thing," Malfoy observed as they sat down, facing each other across the low table. He kept his gaze low, not looking up at Harry, strands of white-blond hair falling across his forehead to shield his eyes.

"Shows how much you know," Harry said, leaning back into the chair. "Those spells are very advanced."

Malfoy's lips quirked up a fraction. "Admit it. You're just lazy."

"If I were lazy, Malfoy, I wouldn't even be here."

He'd meant it as a joke, but evidently Malfoy didn't find it funny. That ghost of a smile disappeared. "Do you know why _I_ think you're here?"

Harry shrugged. Whatever it was, he was probably wrong.

"At first I thought it was revenge."

Malfoy kept saying things to that effect. Revenge, or hatred, or obsession, or a desire to ruin his life. As though there was no way that Harry simply wanted to help. But something made Harry sit up straighter.

"'At first'?" he repeated.

That small quirk of Malfoy's lips again, as though he meant to smile but was too tired to go through with it completely. "At first," he confirmed.

"And now?"

"Now I think you're quite deranged."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I should have seen that one coming."

"You hate me," Malfoy continued, his gaze still lowered. "You hate my family. And yet you're here, and it isn't even for revenge. So yes, you're crazy."

"You know why I'm here," Harry said, exasperated. "I'm here because you saved my life. This is my way of saying 'thank you' to you and your mother."

The smile stretched out a little. "You sure have a way of going about it, don't you? I assure you, Potter, a note would have sufficed."

"Notes don't get delivered in Azkaban," Harry said coldly, making the other man flinch. "Besides," he added in a softer tone, "I don't hate you."

This was true. If there was one thing the war had taught him, it was what hatred really was. That hot, pure, scorching hatred he had witnessed in Bellatrix and Voldemort had an intensity to it that he couldn't find in his feelings for Malfoy.

"Which doesn't mean you enjoy my company," Malfoy said. "Or I yours. You're submitting both of us to this torture willingly."

Harry shifted in his seat. "Torture?"

"You, me, one room. Torture."

He smiled. "It's not so bad."

"Maybe not for you."

It was unsettling, Harry thought, not to be able to see Malfoy's eyes. He couldn't tell what the other man was thinking.

"But I can't even use magic against you, so any argument we would get in would be pointless. And the only thing I'd willingly do with you is fight. So..."

"Is it really that bad?"

Harry's heart sank. If it wasn't hatred, then he didn't know how he felt about Malfoy. Was it pity? Merlin, no, he would hate that. Gratitude? Maybe. Admiration? No, it was none of that, really; just a great, big, confused mess. But he knew that some part of him didn't want Malfoy to feel tortured.

Some part of him thought Draco Malfoy deserved to be happy.

"Is your life worth that of dozens of others?" Kingsley had asked. Harry still didn't know the answer.

"Yeah, it is," Malfoy said, "but it could be worse. Though why you're not making this as bad as you can – and trust me, that's pretty bad – is beyond me."

"Beyond you?" Harry repeated in disbelief. "Are you serious? You know why."

Malfoy's reply was terse; Harry was sure his eyes were narrowed. He desperately wanted to see them.

"Yeah," Malfoy said. "I suppose I do. Listen, Potter. Let me set things straight for you. I don't like you. Never did, never will. So get rid of these delusions you've been harbouring. I didn't save you because I desperately wanted you to live or anything."

"Then why?" Harry asked. "Tell me. I want to know why you did it, Malfoy."

"Truthfully? I don't know." Malfoy still didn't look him in the eye; his voice was hard but quiet. "Blame it on temporary insanity. I didn't _want_ to. If I had stopped for a split second to think about what I was doing, I wouldn't have done it. But I didn't think."

"That doesn't make any sense," Harry said softly.

_Because I looked at you. I looked straight at you before you did it. I saw you. You looked..._

Desperate. Malfoy had seemed _desperate_.

"Is it really so hard for you to believe that I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart, Potter? Because I didn't. Get this through your head, will you? _I'm not like you_. I didn't do it out of bravery, or trust, or because I wanted to save your life." The words spilled out of him quickly, still in that hard tone; it would have sounded aggressive if he had actually been looking at Harry. "It was the most stupid, reckless thing I've _ever_ done and I don't think there's anything you or anyone else could do or say to make me do anything like it again."

"Yeah?" Harry said. "You really think so?

Malfoy's tone was flat. "That was not a challenge."

"We'll see."

"You _will_," Malfoy said. "Slytherins don't _do_ reckless, Potter. It's called cunning."

"Cunning flew out the window when you had that very... _brave_ moment where you threw yourself in front of your Dark Lord and saved my life."

Malfoy's head snapped up, eyes flashing; it was so sudden that Harry leaned back, startled.

"I think you've overstayed your welcome, Potter."

"What, are you going to throw me out? I reckon the Ministry will have something to say about that."

"You know I can't 'throw you out,'" Malfoy said through a clenched jaw. "I'm only saying that you should get your arse out of that chair and do your Auror stuff. This isn't a friends' reunion, you know."

"I have the _right_ to ask you questions."

"Only those relevant to our case or our probation, such as what I did yesterday, or if my parents have left the house recently. Which they haven't."

"I know," Harry said. "We've placed wards around the Manor. They haven't been out since they returned home. Are they all right?"

"Not relevant." Malfoy's tone had an edge of steel to it. "Try again."

"All right," Harry conceded. "What _did_ you do yesterday?"

Malfoy paused for a moment, as though surprised. Again he lowered his chin, his eyelids drooping to hide his eyes. "I stayed at home and did more or less nothing."

Harry frowned, unsettled by the sudden change. "You had to be doing _something_."

"Why?"

"Because you're not imprisoned, Malfoy. You have your house. A library. The grounds. You can _leave_ the house. You're practically free. It's _not_ prison. You should take advantage of that."

"Are you telling me what to do? I mean, is that an _order_ from the Auror Office?"

"Of course not. Godric, Malfoy, I'm just –"

"Then I'll do what I want," Malfoy said. "You say I have my house. You say I can go anywhere I want. But I can only do that because the Ministry _allows_ me to. And if I do leave, the wards will inform you, and the next time you come you'll probably ask me where I went. Do you see? It's like my own house doesn't belong to me anymore. It serves you, now. The _rights_ I have – they're not real rights. It's hardly any better than prison."

Harry was silent for a moment. Was that how Malfoy felt? "I'm sorry."

"What for? It's not your fault. Of course, the fact that it's _you_ isn't helping anything, but it's not your fault it's like this."

"Yeah, it is."

Malfoy said nothing.

"I could..." Harry paused, then had a sudden surge of inspiration. "Malfoy," he said, "would it change anything – would it be any better if I swore _not_ to ask you where you'd gone if you left the house?"

Malfoy started, and again his eyes snapped to Harry's, but only for a brief moment before he looked away again. "What?" His expression was one of surprise, but behind that, Harry caught a glimpse of sudden, fleeting hope despite his tightly controlled tone. "Why would you do that?"

"Because," Harry said, "even if you don't want to be a hero – and believe me, I completely understand that –, you still saved my life. I owe your family, Malfoy. I want to make this easier for you."

Something flickered in Malfoy's expression at the words _'I owe your family.'_ He scowled. "You don't owe us anything, Potter."

"Do you remember our first year?" Harry asked suddenly.

"Why?"

"Do you remember, on the train, when you asked me to be your friend?"

Malfoy didn't answer, but he pressed his lips together into a thin line.

"What do you think would have happened if I had said yes?" Harry asked. He'd thought about it more than once over the years. Many times he had thought it would never have worked out. But sometimes, on those days when he had a little more faith in humanity than usual, his dreams would take him elsewhere.

"Why are you thinking about that _now_?"

"Because I feel like I understand you," Harry said, looking straight at Malfoy. He knew the blond could feel his gaze even if he refused to look up. "About me not owing you, about your freedom, and not wanting to be seen as a hero – because you _could_, you know, if you wanted to, even if you think it's stupid. It all sounds like something _I_ would say, if I were in your place. I feel as if..." _As if someone is echoing my own thoughts back to me._

The look on Malfoy's face was hard to read, made even more inscrutable by the fact that Harry couldn't see his eyes clearly. Surprise, confusion, and distaste warred in his expression, and he said nothing for a few moments. Then: "Shouldn't you be checking for dark magic or something?"

Harry suppressed a sigh and stood up slowly. "You can't evade me forever, Malfoy. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."

Malfoy didn't reply, and Harry closed his eyes to concentrate. He cast the first spell, _listening_ to it, paying attention to the feeling that spread throughout his body. At first glance, so to speak, nothing seemed amiss as he projected himself throughout the various rooms of the Manor. He stopped the spell, hesitated, then muttered something else.

_"Homenum revelio... _Malfoy," he said, opening his eyes, "Your parents are in the next room. Why can't I talk to them?"

Malfoy started. "What did you just _do_?"

"Answer me," Harry said. "Are you trying to _hide_ them or something?"

"I'm not _hiding_ anything, Potter."

"You're lying."

"Oh, that's rich. What, aren't your spells effective enough? Can't you_ tell_ I haven't hidden anything?"

"I could. You know I'm allowed to use Veritaserum on you."

Malfoy's entire body tensed; his hands curled into fists. "What happened to _owing_ us?"

"If you're not completely honest with me, then how do you expect me to –"

"I don't expect you to do _anything_! I never _asked_ for your help – or your pathetic attempt at helping, I should say, because let me tell you, it's not working!"

"Will you just _tell_ me –"

"No! No, I won't, because it's none of your bloody business!"

"It _is_ my business. I still haven't seen them, not once, since the trial. It's my _job_. It's the _law._"

"They have nothing to say to you."

Harry changed his tack. "I'd like to speak to your mother, at least. To thank her. I'm glad she didn't end up in prison."

Malfoy gave him a strange look. "I'll pass it along."

It was obvious he wouldn't. Harry felt a spark of anger rise in him, hot and fierce.

"I could go over there right now," he said, his tone hard. "I could talk to them, and you couldn't do anything to stop me."

Malfoy looked up then, eyes flashing. "Try me."

"What are you going to do, _talk_ me out of it?" Harry knew he was being unreasonable, but Malfoy had always had a gift for infuriating him. "I'd like to see you try. Go ahead, give it your best shot."

He turned on his heel and started heading for the door. In a flash, Malfoy was on his feet, barring the way, glaring at Harry. His wand was pointed straight at the trainee Auror's chest.

"I told you you would talk to them when I said you could," he growled. "And not a moment earlier. They're not ready."

_Ready for what?_ Harry wondered.

"That's not your decision to make," he said. "Hey, does that wand still work well for you?"

Something like anger contorted Malfoy's features. "Fuck you."

"I was just wondering," Harry said conversationally. "Since I won it from you, I wondered whether you'd still be able to use –"

"_Spiculum_!"

Harry's reflexes allowed him to draw his own wand as Malfoy screamed out the incantation for the Stinging Hex, but he wasn't fast enough to cast a Shield Charm before the hex hit him. Or rather, hit his wand.

The jet of white light emitted from Malfoy's wand struck Harry's, almost jerking it out of his hand, and with a powerful, almost blinding flash of golden light, it... vanished. Just like that. Harry's anger fell like a dropped stone when he saw Malfoy's expression go from fury, to shock, to horror as he realised that the hex hadn't even _touched_ Harry.

Because Malfoy's wand was still loyal to _Harry_.

Malfoy stepped back, letting his hand drop to his side, and looked down at the floor again. "Take it back," he said, not looking at Harry.

"Malfoy –"

"_Take it back!_"

Harry did, reaching over to pluck the wand from Draco's fingers. A wave of shame washed over him. "I'm sorry, Malfoy."

"Like hell you are." Malfoy still wasn't looking at him. "So, what now? How does this go? Do you take us to Azkaban, or do you have to call in a special team from the Ministry for that?"

"What are you talking about?"

Malfoy looked up, his eyes empty. "I broke the contract. The bond terms. Whatever you want to call it. I broke it when I used magic against you. So now we get locked up again."

Despite his efforts to sound calm, there was something terribly raw and guilty about Malfoy's tone. He had, in a single burst of anger – one that hadn't even been constructive –, condemned his family.

The words spilled from Harry's mouth before he could think them through. "You're not going back to Azkaban, Malfoy. It's not like this is the first time you've broken the contract – I haven't even talked to your parents yet. This is nothing."

Malfoy shot him an incredulous look. "I _attacked_ you."

Yes, he had, and Harry realised that some part of him had almost – almost _enjoyed_ it. Reveled in it. He had felt exhilarated by the aggression, and it was enough to give him pause and make him wonder – was all he'd wanted since the end of the war for someone to _not_ treat him differently? That curl of his lips when he sneered, the disdain dripping from his tone when he said "Potter" (not Harry or The Chosen One or The Saviour unless he was mocking him) – they meant so much to Harry that he wondered just how fucked up he was. Some days it seemed like Malfoy was the only one who could give him this – this disrespect, this challenge, this intense, honest _dislike_ based on who he really _was_, not what he'd done or what he stood for.

"Well, I sort of deserved it." And he had. He'd taunted and pushed Malfoy too far. A part of him had probably _wanted_ this to happen.

"That's not how it goes, Potter. It's not about _deserving_. I –"

"Do you _want_ to go back there?"

"Of course not."

"Then shut up and forget about this. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened."

Something flickered in Malfoy's expression. His eyes slid down to the pocket his wand was concealed in, then back up to Harry's face.

"It never happened," he repeated.

"No. It didn't."

"Why are you doing this, Potter?"

"Because," Harry said. "Whatever you may think, you're not a bad person."

Malfoy gritted his teeth but said nothing, and when Harry left ten minutes later, he couldn't shake the distinct impression that Malfoy was hiding something. Several things, in fact. It wasn't just his parents, but also the way he hadn't quite been able to meet Harry's eyes at first, and the sudden flash of anger – Harry was certain that it wasn't a common occurrence for Malfoy to lose his temper like that, risk everything for a stupid _emotion_. Something was up.

_"Truthfully? I don't know,"_ he had said.

For a Slytherin, Malfoy wasn't a very good liar.


	10. Caught in the Rain

**Made it! There was no reason to worry, I guess. Thank you for reading, following, and reviewing.**

**As you can see, this is starting to focus a bit more on the Draco/Harry relationship. Finally. And, also finally, you find out why Draco saved Harry's life back in the first chapter.**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Caught in the Rain<strong>

* * *

><p>It took a while for Harry to pinpoint what was off about Malfoy, why he had stopped looking him in the eye. In fact, he didn't figure it out by himself. The next time he saw Malfoy, he bullied the information out of him.<p>

And then he wished he'd never asked.

* * *

><p>He and Ron were in Diagon Alley when it happened. They had the afternoon off because the senior Auror teaching the Potions and Poisons class was ill. After having a drink at the Leaky Cauldron to celebrate – they were both absolute pants at that class, and the instructor had not exactly taken a shine to them –, they decided to take advantage of the opportunity to stop by Weasley's Wizard* Wheezes and see how George was doing.<p>

George seemed to be doing all right, actually; much better than Harry had expected. But how could Harry know what losing a twin brother was like? He had never had any siblings. The only family he had ever known, he had hated. He couldn't even try to relate. George had been a walking shell at Fred's funeral, and Harry had sat in a corner and tried to deal with the fact that it was _all his fault_, even though none of the Weasleys would ever admit it.

The shop seemed to be keeping George busy, taking his mind off things. The work managed to keep his grief at bay, pushing it into a far corner of his mind. So soon after the war, everyone seemed to want to laugh. Harry had never seen the shop so crowded. And George moved so fluidly between customers and Verity the assistant was so efficient you could hardly tell Fred was missing. But there were clues, here and there. The way Verity kept looking at her boss. The way George's hands shook when he picked up a box of Canary Creams, one of Fred's inventions. The utter absence of joking around, as though a laugh without Fred wasn't worth anything.

But George put up a good face, smiling and friendly, apparently not destroyed by loss and grief. It came as a relief to Harry, a sort of guilty relief because he couldn't ignore the voice in his head that said that Fred – and Colin, and Tonks, and Lupin, and all of them – had died because of _him_.

That was one of the things he and Ginny had argued about before she left.

Ron bought a box of Extendable Ears ("For a laugh"), some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder ("You never know, might come in handy") and a small packet of Nosebleed Nougat, which he promptly offered to Harry ("Maybe you could give some to Malfoy next time you see him."). Harry bought nothing, because George refused to take his money and Harry refused to take anything without paying for it. Aurors were paid during their training, as civil servants of sorts. It wasn't much, but with what he already had in his vault and the additional sum he was going to receive for the Malfoy thing, Harry doubted he would ever be in need. Not that George would, either. The shop had to rake in far more Galleons than any Ministry employee – civil servants – would ever make.

They left the shop smiling. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was still the kind of store that made you laugh, and Diagon Alley was lively and cheerful. Bright windows winked at Harry from every side, and colourfully-dressed wizards strode purposefully up and down the alley, hardly sparing him a glance. Perfect. Here and there you could see a trace of the war that had just ended, an unusually closed shop: its windows shattered, or grey and dusty; the door either bolted or broken down and splintered. These struck an unsettling contrast with the rest of the shops. Harry felt a pinch of regret when they passed what had once been Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Florean had been killed by Death Eaters, though no one knew why. The shop had been left untouched since then, but Harry knew it was only a matter of time before someone bought it and – most likely – set up a new business.

"Why do you reckon they did it?" Harry said minutes later, as Ron stopped abruptly in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies to peer inside. "Florean, I mean."

Ron glanced at him. "I don't know. No reason, probably, except that he was a decent bloke."

Harry thought that was strange, but he kept quiet. Ron guessed what he was thinking, though.

"There are a lot of things like that that you don't know, aren't there? About the Death Eaters."

"Yeah."

"Won't the ones in prison talk?"

Harry shrugged. "They have nothing to gain. We can't promise to release them if they tell us what we want to know. We could never do that, and they know it. Besides," he said, looking at a broom on display behind the window, "some of them seem to think that Voldemort will return again."

"But he won't."

Harry shot Ron a sharp glance. "No. He won't. You know that."

"If the Death Eaters in Azkaban won't speak, why can't you ask Malfoy?"

Harry almost laughed at the idea. _Technically_, it should have been a viable option. In practise, though, it was simply impossible. Malfoy was just too defensive, too closed off.

"He wouldn't tell me even if I bothered to ask," Harry said. "Even if he did know anything, which I doubt."

"I didn't mean _Draco_ Malfoy. I was talking about his father."

Harry snorted. "You're joking, right? I haven't even spoken to the elusive Lucius Malfoy _once_ since the trial. And to be honest, I'm not looking forward to it."

"Don't tell me things like that," Ron groaned. "I might have to report it to Kingsley. I'm honour-bound to the Ministry, you know."

"And salary-bound," Harry said. "Go ahead and do it, then. Maybe he'll put you in charge of the Malfoys instead of me."

As Ron put on a horrified expression, it began to rain. Sometimes rain starts with a few small drops, giving you enough warning to run for cover. But this rain fell all of a sudden, like a harsh curtain of water. The sky had been grey and heavy all day and was yearning to get rid of the water. Ron and Harry didn't even look at each other before wrenching the door to Quidditch Quality Supplies open and hurtling in.

"Well, I needed a new pair of gloves, anyway," Ron said, wiping the water off his face. "Let's wait here until the rain calms down."

As Ron headed for the back of the store, Harry went down the aisle, keeping his back to the window. He eyed a box of six Snitches, taken aback by the price.

"Harry," Ron called, "Do you think real dragon hide is worth the price?"

"Lasts longer," Harry said absent-mindedly. "Looks cooler, too, but my old gloves were more comfortable."

He didn't realise how obvious Ron was being, with his height and red hair, raising his voice and calling out Harry's name. A few heads turned to see who was speaking so loudly; Harry turned and ducked his head. He wasn't exactly assaulted in the street every day, but when people looked at him he felt the way he had the first time Hagrid had brought him into the Leaky Cauldron and everyone had been tripping over themselves to shake his hand. The attention made him uncomfortable.

He pointedly looked out the window, knowing he wouldn't be recognised from the back. Out of the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention. A flutter of black, then a flash of white-blond. Harry snapped his head to the side to look directly at Malfoy, who had just entered the street. Now there was someone Harry could recognise from the back of his head, even among a thousand. His hair was plastered to his head by the rain, showing how long it was – in places, it touched his shoulders. His black robes were soaked through, he was walking quickly with his head down, and he had just come from the dark side alley known as Knockturn Alley. The most infamous street in Wizarding Britain.

Harry moved quickly and was out the door before Malfoy had gone ten steps; he stood under the battering rain and called Malfoy's name. He might have believed the wind had snatched the words from his lips if Malfoy hadn't quickened his pace suddenly. It was the only reaction he got.

"Malfoy!"

This time, Malfoy turned his head. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, Malfoy's narrowed in defiance – and then he turned away again.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, and broke into a run. "Malfoy, wait up," Harry called, but of course Malfoy didn't.

Malfoy wasn't allowed to Apparate. It was in the contract. So he tried to run, but Harry ran after him and caught up with him, taking his arm to stop him.

"Got you," Harry said as he caught hold of Malfoy's sleeve. "Merlin, you're soaked."

"Did you follow me?" Malfoy's tone was hard; he looked straight ahead into the rain.

"What?"

Malfoy turned to him suddenly, freeing his arm, eyes flashing; he had to shout his next words to be heard over the rain. "Did you follow me when the wards told you I was leaving?"

Harry shook his head. "The wards didn't tell me anything. They're linked to the Auror Office. I check them every night, but I'm not always behind you, watching your every move. You don't have to be so paranoid." He had _told_ him he wouldn't ask.

"When the one time I go outside, I come across _you_, you can't blame me for thinking –"

"Then you can't blame _me_ for thinking what I thought when I saw you coming out of _Knockturn Alley_." Harry's eyes narrowed. "What were you doing there?"

"Guess you'll see next time you do your routine check at the Manor, won't you?"

"Malfoy, I'm serious. If you bought anything, the Ministry –"

"Concerned, are you? Don't worry, Potter. This is nothing that will affect your career."

"This isn't about my _career_," he snapped. "It's about your freedom."

"Why do you even care, Potter?"

There were a thousand things Harry could say to that, but he didn't, because he wasn't sure which answer was the right one. "Just tell me, Malfoy – what were you doing there?"

"What business of yours is it? I thought you said you wouldn't ask where I went."

That brought Harry up short. He had, hadn't he? He'd sworn not to bother Malfoy about his whereabouts; that probably included not inquiring about the _reason_ he had left the house.

"I..."

"Forgot, did you?"

"No! But _Knockturn Alley_... Malfoy, if you bought something, _anything_, then I need to –"

"I didn't."

"Sold, then?"

"Why would I tell you? Unless you're really going to take out the Veritaserum, I'm not saying a word, Potter. So either you let me go or you force me to tell you, but don't let's pretend to have an honest conversation." He shook his arm free and glared at Harry. "So? What's it going to be?"

Harry was quiet for a moment. The only sound was that of the rain pouring down all around them. Drops of water slithered down Malfoy's cheeks, making it look for all the world as though he were crying. But his eyes burnt with anger, and Harry backed down.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry?<em> Draco stared at Potter, wondering what his game was. He acted all aggressive and official one moment, and the next he was apologising even though he wasn't in the wrong. Draco knew _he_ was the one making this difficult. After all, he was doing it on purpose.

"I won't force you," Potter said.

Draco regained his composure and straightened. "Then this conversation is over."

Potter caught his wrist, gripping it firmly through his robes. "No, it isn't." Something in his tone gave Draco pause: an edge of steel and authority he had never expected to hear in Potter's voice. "I'll tolerate your excuses about your parents," Potter said. "And I won't ask you what you do when you leave the house."

"What's that, trust?"

"Hardly."

"Well. If that's all –"

"It isn't," Potter said, his fingers still wrapped tightly around Draco's wrist. Draco thought they would leave a mark. "I have a question. And I want an answer."

"What is it?"

"First promise me you'll answer."

Malfoy shook his head. His wet hair stuck to his face, and he felt – and figured he must look – like a drowned, pathetic rat caught in the rain.

"Why a promise? My word is worth nothing."

"A man is only as good as his word," Potter said, "and we've already established that you're not a bad person."

Draco glanced up at the black clouds, then back at Potter. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know a lot of things about you."

"If that's what you think, then you're an idiot," Draco said. "Fine. I promise, then. A promise not worth a Knut. Ask away, and then let me go. It's pouring."

"Why did you save me?"

Draco started, then laughed at his own foolishness. "I should have known. You're so fucking predictable, do you know that?" He jerked his arm free. "Like I said, Potter. You overestimate me. I am not a good person."

"Tell me," Potter insisted. "If it's not that, then what was it? Why wouldn't you look me in the eye last time I came? You're hiding something, I know you are. What is it?"

"That's three questions, Potter," Draco observed. "But luckily for you, they all have the same answer."

The rain calmed down a little; it was now reduced to a few gentle drops. Draco drew nearer, until he was practically nose-to-nose with Potter, the Saviour's breath hot against his lips.

"Are you sure you want to hear?" he asked, lowering his voice. "You're not going to like this. It's not what you're expecting."

"I want to to hear it. I need to hear it."

"Why? What will it change? What can it change? Would you suddenly stop being so unbearably forgiving?"

Potter looked taken aback. "I'm only trying to help, Malfoy," he said, his voice soft and pained. "Believe me. _Trust_ me."

Draco stared at him. His mother's words came back to him, unbidden. _"I'm only trying to help you, Draco. Why won't you let me?"_

"Can't you trust that I'm not interested in seeing you return to Azkaban? That I _want_ you to be free?"

Draco shook his head mutely.

"Well, I do. I owe you, Malfoy. You saved my life..."

"Not before you saved mine." The words spilled out of him without warning; he caught himself too late.

"That's not the point."

'Yes, it is,' Draco almost said. 'It's exactly the point. It's the _whole_ point.'

Instead he said, "Can't we just call it quits?"

Potter eyed him. "No, we can't just call it quits," he said slowly, drawing the words out as though he were questioning Draco's intelligence.

"Oh, right, the trial. I suppose I still owe you, then, don't?" He grimaced.

"You don't owe me anything," Potter said in the same way.

"Then that means we're quits."

Potter stared. "You," he said, "are very annoying."

"It's a gift."

"Listen," Potter said, and again there was that indefinable _edge_ to his tone which made Draco shut up and do just that. "What you did – what your mother did – I could _never_ pay you back for that. You were both ready to defy Voldemort to save me – for your own reasons. Nothing I'll ever do could possibly begin to repay the debt that _I_ owe _you_."

Draco blinked. _Potter_ thought he was indebted to _him_?

"Malfoy... I have to ask. I know why your mother did it. She did it for you. But you, Malfoy... What were you thinking when you saved my life?"

His expression was avid, his eyes searching, as though he wanted to believe that Draco had done it out of chivalry, a sudden change of heart, maybe even _affection_ for him... Well, he was going to be disappointed. Draco averted his gaze.

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah," Potter said. "It does."

* * *

><p>Harry watched Malfoy curiously. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the table and his entire body was taut like a string pulled tight. Ready to snap.<p>

"You can't make me buy that it just _happened_ and that you don't know why. It's not like you not to think something through before you do it."

Malfoy raised his head, and his eyes were hard as steel. "I hate you, Potter." The words were said without inflection, without venom, but they rang cold and true. "I always have. I would never have thrown myself between you and the Dark Lord like that, because I hated you. And you don't even know why, do you?"

Harry shook his head silently.

"You were raised Muggle, and I've never known anything but magic; you've always had friends to count on; you couldn't stand the Dark Arts – you and I, we're like complete opposites, and at the same time, it always felt like a fucking competition that no matter how hard I tried, I could never win. Do you have any idea how much of myself was defined by you? My parents made me understand, when I was little, that I was better than other people simply because I was a Malfoy."

He sounded bitter now, almost self-mocking, as though his pride had been dented enough to allow him to see how pathetic he was.

"Then I went to Hogwarts and _you_ were there and you didn't care. You didn't think I was worth your time. I was rich, but so were you. My family had a certain social standing, but _you_ had the fame and you didn't even want it. You were on the Quidditch team and you'd never played a game in your life. And of course you were a Seeker, and I never, ever won a single match against you, even though I had the better broom in second year, even though I started flying years before you did. I'm a good player, but you were just fucking _better_. I got decent grades, but they were never enough because of Granger. And the House Cup in first year? That has got to be the grossest, most indecent injustice I have ever witnessed!"

The words were spilling out of him now, fast and unchecked, and Harry doubted Malfoy knew how much he sounded like a child at the moment.

"I couldn't even beat you in a fucking duel, because Harry Potter knew more about the Dark Arts than I did – in second year with that Parseltongue thing, and in fifth year with your curse. It's like I'm the fucking designated loser in advance, here to underline your victories, and nothing I do can ever change that because you're Harry bloody _Potter_. Even as a Death Eater I wasn't worth your attention. All along I just wanted to know that I mattered – that what I thought, what I did, wasn't completely uninteresting to you. But you just didn't care."

He paused to take a breath. His spiel seemed to be over; his cheeks were slightly flushed, as though he'd just realised how much he'd said. But then his gaze hardened again, and his mouth twisted into a grimace that was half-sneer, half-frown.

"Have you ever heard of life debts, Potter?"

A sick feeling pooled in Harry's stomach. He remembered Pettigrew's end, the way his own hand had betrayed him. His face must have given something away, because Malfoy smiled joylessly.

"You have, then."

Harry shook his head. "I thought they were –"

"A romantic concept? A myth? An old wives' tale? So did I. I only wish they were."

"But how –?"

Malfoy looked at him archly. "The Final Battle. The Room of Requirement. Remember?"

Harry remembered. "We saved your life. Ron and Hermione and me."

"It was _your_ idea, though, wasn't it? Because _you_ contracted a life debt then, and the debt was owed to _you_."

Harry thought back to the moment.

The scorching heat of the fire, the blinding smoke that forced him to narrow his eyes and made his throat burn. Below him he could see only the flame monsters; Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be seen. He dived, forcing his broom down to the very tips of the flames for a closer look, but...

A scream, a chilling, desperate scream. Malfoy's voice.

Ron, yelling at him to get out, because it was too dangerous, because they couldn't die in this stupid, stupid way...

Finally spotting Malfoy, not thinking twice before he dived again...

_"If we die for them, I'll kill you, Harry!"_

"Yeah, it was my idea."

"Typical."

"So that means..."

Malfoy's smile widened, but it was even colder than before. "The reason you got us out of Azkaban... It was based on something I didn't have a choice in. I couldn't control myself when I saved your life. If I had been able to choose, I would never have done it. _That's_ what it means."

Horror filled Harry. "I don't believe you," he said. "It can't be."

"What? Can't admit you made a mistake? You saved a family of _Death Eaters_, Potter. You should have seen this coming. You wouldn't believe me when I told you I wasn't a hero... You should have listened."

Harry shook his head slowly. "But you're not –"

"Just because we were in the same year at school," Malfoy said, his voice cutting, "doesn't mean you know everything about me."

He had been distant until now; suddenly his glare was unleashed like a tidal wave, crashing into Harry, nearly knocking him over with its force. Venom dripped from his words.

"In fact you obviously know _nothing_ about me, if you thought I would be _reckless_ enough to do something like that. Save your life, Potter, when I didn't even _like_ you? Save your life, when it meant putting my own at risk? Let me tell you, Potter – and believe me this time –, there is no one on Earth for whom I would do that, least of all _you_."

Harry now knew, without a doubt, that it wasn't bravery that had motivated Malfoy's actions. It was the debt. But Malfoy's last words caught his attention.

"No one? Not even your mother?"

Malfoy's entire attitude changed. He stiffened suddenly, his mouth turning down into a scowl. "Don't bring her into this."

"You're not a bad person," Harry insisted. "Your family didn't deserve to be broken up over this. You love each other. That's what matters. Not why you saved me, or what you did before."

Malfoy's expression was one of disbelief.

"I didn't know you owed me a life debt," Harry added. "I really didn't. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We're even now. And that's good, Potter. That's how it's meant to be. No weird, powerful magic debt forcing me to protect you against my will. Just you, me, and nothing in between."

"Yeah," Harry said slowly, though his mind was racing. "Nothing in between. No more debt."

Malfoy gave him one last thoughtful look, as though he hadn't missed the hesitation in Harry's voice, and then he turned on his heel and left.

Harry absent-mindedly rubbed the tiny 8-shaped scar on the palm of his hand with his thumb. _No more debt_.


	11. Why Does the Truth Bother You?

**Why Does the Truth Bother You?**

* * *

><p>Harry was not the most tactful of people, but even he had the sense to give Malfoy some space after what he was referring to in his mind as the "Knockturn Alley incident." When Ron had caught up with him, standing alone, completely soaked, staring in the direction Malfoy had taken, he had only been able to say that he had been speaking with Malfoy.<p>

Ron had grimaced. _"Don't you see enough of him already?"_

Harry had almost replied, but decided against it. What was he supposed to say, anyway? _He hates me because I saved his life?_ Or,_ I just found out he only saved me because some weird magical force _made_ him do it?_ Because that, though he had denied it at the time, was what Harry found most unsettling.

He had believed that Malfoy had had a last-minute change of heart. Or even that a shred of humanity had reminded him that Harry had saved his life and that he had felt _honour-bound_ to return the favour. Not to repay a goddamn _life debt_. It made a lie out of nearly everything Harry had said at his trial. It made a lie out of everything Harry had thought he knew about Malfoy.

Even so, he recognised that Malfoy was also unsettled by the confession, for reasons unknown. He had hardly been able to look Harry in the eye when he had first realised it, and it was obvious it pained him to ever have owed Harry anything. So Harry gave him a wide berth. Whenever the wards alerted him that Malfoy was leaving the house, he hardly reacted. In fact Malfoy was coming and going more frequently than before, sometimes several times a day; Harry wondered whether he was taunting him or genuinely just enjoying the fact that he wouldn't be quizzed about his whereabouts later.

"_Argh_," he said, very intelligibly, as he slammed his food tray down at the table where Neville was sitting with his Auror training partner.

Neville looked at him in alarm. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yeah, yeah. Malfoy's just doing my head in."

"Oh, right." Neville nodded knowingly.

"And it's Monday. I hate Mondays."

"You and everyone else, mate." Neville looked a little green in the face. They had Potions on Monday afternoons.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Course not."

Neville's partner this week, the weird Ravenclaw named Richard, gave Harry a very strange look when he slid into the seat across from Neville. Harry ignored it and pushed his tray to the side, instead laying his head on the table and heaving out a huge sigh.

"So, what's he done this time?" Neville asked, sounding concerned.

"Nothing," Harry moaned. "Everything. He's just so... _Malfoy,_ you know?"

Neville was silent. Harry cracked open an eye and was horrified to see his friend looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

"Sorry, sorry," Neville said quickly when he caught Harry looking. "It must be awful. It's just, you two remind me of Hogwarts. It's almost like nothing has changed."

Harry closed his eye again. There really was nothing he could say to that. He wished he could agree, but the truth was, his relationship with Malfoy was the one thing that had most changed since the war. The only similarity was that it was still fucked up.

"Oh," Neville said, sounding a little worried when Harry didn't react. "Have you seen him since this weekend?"

"How do you know about this weekend?" Harry asked the table.

"Ron mentioned it. Something about Diagon Alley. You two had a fight?"

Harry thought about it. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I'm not sure it was a fight. It's just... Malfoy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Harry thought he could almost hear Neville smiling, and he wished he'd never mentioned it. He really didn't want to think about this right now.

He stood up abruptly and left the table, ignoring Neville's startled look, or the way his friend called after him.

* * *

><p>Even though Harry wanted nothing more than to forget <em>that<em> discussion and never see Malfoy again, the next week-end rolled around very quickly, and all too soon it was time to stop by the manor again. He was filled with a sentiment of dread he couldn't explain – apprehension, maybe, of how Malfoy would act. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that there was nothing between them anymore, no fake mutual respect, no naïve belief in Malfoy's bravery.

_Slytherins will be Slytherins_, Harry told himself as he stood before the gate. _He's right, you should have guessed without him ever having to tell you._

Malfoy had been so cold, so aloof, that it should have been obvious he didn't care one whit for Harry's survival. And that, Harry knew, was what stung. Somewhere inside him, _he_ didn't want Malfoy to die. And he had thought, because of what had happened at the Manor after he had been Snatched, that some part of Malfoy felt the same about him. The disappointment he felt was out of proportion. There had never been anything but childish antagonism between them. Nothing that could even be vaguely construed as something other than disdain. Nothing that warranted feeling... _betrayed_. Because no promises had ever been made.

So why had he imagined that Malfoy was capable of _caring_?

And why did the truth bother him so much?

He resolutely pushed the thought away and passed through the gate effortlessly. Malfoy had had the wards altered to let him pass through without question. Harry wondered how he had felt about that. It didn't matter, anyway. He was here for official purposes only.

It felt like something was missing, now that he had no reason to be grateful to Malfoy.

He wondered whether Malfoy guessed his mood when he opened the door. The blonde was dark-eyed and sour-faced as usual at first, but it quickly faded to mild surprise when he took in Harry's expression. Harry wondered what he saw there, or thought he saw; again he brushed the thought away and schooled his features into a blank expression as he greeted the other.

"Anything new to inform the Ministry of?" he asked as he made his way to the drawing room, walking as confidently as if he owned the house.  
>Malfoy followed a few steps behind him; Harry could feel the irritation radiating off him. It was a petty sort of revenge – revenge for what? – but it made him feel vindicated.<p>

"No," Malfoy said, his voice unexpectedly calm. "There's nothing the Ministry should know. I didn't buy anything in Knockturn Alley."

Harry said nothing.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Was it his imagination, or was there an edge of hurt in Malfoy's tone? Harry reached the door to the drawing room; he rested his hand on the handle.

"I believe you."

"Really," Malfoy said, his voice much closer now, but quiet and breathy. He stood just behind Harry; if Harry backed up a step he would be standing on Malfoy's toes.

"Really."

It wasn't like Malfoy had lied to him. He'd been telling the truth, the whole time, and Harry had been too blind to see it. Now he believed him.

"My parents are in there," Malfoy said.

Harry immediately withdrew his hand from the cool metal of the handle as though he'd been burnt. "Oh, sorry. Where are we supposed to go, then?"

He turned to look at Malfoy – their faces were inches apart –, hoping the answer wasn't the main drawing room. He wasn't scared, exactly, but the thought of the place made him feel the same way the thought of returning to Hogwarts did. It was the desire to put it all behind him and never think about it again – a desire the press didn't seem to understand.

"Same place as usual," Malfoy said. His expression was attentive, revealing nothing about his own feelings, as though he were waiting to see how Harry would react.

"You mean – in front of your parents?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and amusement flashed in his expression for a fraction of a second. "I mean talk _to_ my parents, Potter."

"Oh." Realisation hit. "Well, it's about time."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "And that kind of attitude is exactly why I didn't –"

"Like I can expect any better from _them_," Harry cut in. "Come on, let's get this over with."

He turned the handle and opened the door.

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy sat together on either side of a couch, Narcissa's hands clasped together in her lap. They didn't even pretend not to have heard everything through the door and met Harry's gaze squarely. A shiver ran up his spine as Lucius' cool grey eyes bore into him, challenging, and in that instant, Harry knew he'd been right after all. Draco Malfoy did have something worth saving; a warmth, a spark, a light that his father had lost.

_Lucius Malfoy is a dangerous criminal,_ Kingsley had said. _Think about it._

Strangely enough, both of Malfoy's parents looked better than their son did: rounder, _fuller_ somehow. Narcissa's cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright with alertness, with _life_; Lucius was as pale as his son, but his hair was groomed and his clothes were tailored. In contrast, Draco looked almost sloppy; his robes were expensive, but they hung badly on him because of the weight he had lost, making him look like a shabby scarecrow. His white-blond hair was once again not slicked back, as though here were deliberately cultivating the difference. At the same time, there was something alluring about the sharpness of his jaw and the way the skin was drawn tightly over his now-prominent cheekbones. It set him as much apart from his father as the eyes and the hair and at that moment, for all that father and son were alike in colouring and features, Harry thought he had never seen two more strikingly opposed men side by side.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, not bothering to reach out a hand that he knew would be rejected. "Mrs Malfoy. I hope I find you well."

Malfoy moved away to stand at a careful distance in a corner of the room, watching them with hawk eyes.

"As well as can be given the circumstances," Narcissa replied; it was really the only possible answer.

"It would doubtless be better if you didn't find us at all," Lucius drawled.

"Certainly," Harry said after a pause, determined not to be so easily thrown. "I assure you, I want to be here about as much as you want to see me here. All we can do is make this as painless as possible. I only need to go over a couple official things. And one unofficial."

He looked straight at Narcissa, noting for the first time a resemblance with her sister Andromeda. Something about the jaw, maybe around the eyes, too. He focused on that, trying not to let his distaste for the woman show.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly.

She didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about, or even to appreciate his gratitude. "I didn't do it for you."

Her tone was haughty. Lucius' eyes slid over to her, questioning; Harry realised he didn't _know_. He couldn't resist the urge to glance at Malfoy, for whom Narcissa had been ready to sacrifice everything; the blonde stared impassively back. Harry forced himself to look away.

"I know that. But you _did_ do it, and that's what I'm thanking you for. It was very brave of you." It wasn't a very high compliment for a Malfoy – a Slytherin – but at least Narcissa didn't seem to take offence. "And... I'm sorry about your sister."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed; Harry saw Draco start out of the corner of his eye. "No, you're not."

Harry set his jaw. "I am, actually, although I'm sure you can't understand that. Never mind, it doesn't matter." He took out a notepad and flicked through the pages. "Your son has already answered most of my questions, but Ministry protocol requires that I go through these once more with you..."

"I told you there was no point," Malfoy cut in, his voice sharp as broken glass. "They're only going to tell you what I've already said. You don't have to... They don't need to go through that."

Harry bit back a fiery retort; the last thing he needed was to get into an argument with Malfoy in front of his parents. "It isn't your decision to make," he said calmly. "I've already bent the rules enough for you."

"You have," Malfoy said. "So what does it matter if you do it again?"

"Leave it alone, Draco," Lucius said, his voice silky smooth. "Let the little Auror ask his questions if it makes the Ministry feel better."

He looked as collected as his son always acted, but Harry's eyes zeroed in on a tremor in his left hand. Not nervousness, more like an uncontrolled tic. Azkaban could do that to a person, he supposed. Meeting the cool emptiness of Lucius' eyes again, Harry wondered what other marks their stay in prison had left on the Malfoys' bodies – and minds.

The questions were intrusive and repetitive, trying to get as much personal information about the couple as the Ministry could justify needing. There were questions about their eating habits, the places they usually shopped at, and their daily routines. _What time do you wake up? Do you ever sleep in? Do you cook, Mrs Malfoy?_ They replied curtly but not rudely, and Harry couldn't not notice that their answers were one hundred percent compatible with what their son had told him.

"Do you receive social visits from anyone? Friends, family, maybe?"

The question rolled off his tongue before he could think about it; he had been rattling off these questions for a quarter of an hour, reading without really processing them, jotting down answers as quickly as he could. The room seemed to go completely still and he felt himself flush as he realised what he'd just implied.

"They're general questions," he said quickly, looking up to meet Narcissa's eyes. "I didn't – it's a form written by the Ministry, they don't factor in whether you –"

"– actually have any family left," Draco filled in.

Narcissa had gone quite pale; her hands were clenched tightly around fistfuls of her robes in her lap. She opened her mouth as though to say something but couldn't seem to get the words out; she dropped her gaze to the floor and stared at a spot on the carpet.

"How tactful," Lucius said with a sneer that was very reminiscent of Draco's. "I suppose your next question was going to be whether either of us had a lover."

"That was the last one, actually," Harry said quietly. "I... Well, I know the answer to that already, anyway. So... Thank you for your... cooperation," he said finally, standing up.

Narcissa and Lucius rose to their feet as well, almost out of politeness. Harry nodded at them, then made to turn away; suddenly Narcissa's hand shot out, wrapping itself around his arm. He looked at her, surprised. Her eyes were as hard as steel.

"Don't be too hard on him," she said, her voice too low for Malfoy to hear from across the room.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, then back at Narcissa. "I won't."

* * *

><p>Malfoy followed him out of the room, as though to accompany him out. Harry wasn't sure whether it was meant to be polite or whether Malfoy just wanted to make sure he got off the grounds as quickly as possible.<p>

"Well, that was... pointless."

Harry glanced at Malfoy. Was it his imagination, or did the blond sound _amused_? He was practically smiling.

"Yeah, it was."

"Are you satisfied now? You got to talk to my parents."

Harry started. Had this been Malfoy's way of – _apologising_? Making it up to him? It was a disguised peace offering, and Harry wasn't sure how to accept it without being too obvious.

"Something tells me I'm going to keep those occasions to a minimum now," he said, trying to make it into a joke.

This time, Malfoy _did_ smile. "That sounds like the first good idea you've had to date."

Harry hummed noncommittally.

Malfoy was silent for a moment, then: "What did my mother say to you? When you were about to leave?"

"Oh, that," Harry said. "Nothing." He changed the subject."Your parents are... special. What was it like for you, growing up?"

Malfoy's lips curled into a half-smile. "You think I was abused."

"I didn't exactly –"

"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said. "My childhood was very happy, if you can believe that."

Harry thought he could. Malfoy in first year had been arrogant and proud, the kind of child who still believed that his parents were superheroes and that if a train ran over him, he could peel himself off the tracks and be fine again. The kind of child who thought he was invincible. The kind of child who'd grown up with parents who protected him no matter what.

Godric, had it really been seven years since he and Malfoy had met?

"Why didn't you want me to talk to them before?"

"Just because."

"Do you expect me to buy that? You don't do things 'just because.' You're avoiding my questions, just like you did when you didn't want me to know about the debt."

At the word _debt_, Malfoy's eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth turned down. "Why are you even bothering with this, Potter? From the moment we laid eyes on each other you disliked me. You _did_," he said when Harry's opened his mouth to speak, "and don't even try to deny it. _You_ were the one who brushed off my offer of friendship, not the other way around."

"Even if I _had_ accepted it, do you really think we could have been friends? Doesn't that seem – impossible?"

But even as he said the words, he wondered. Were they true, or was there a side to Malfoy he didn't know? What if he had let the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin – would he have eventually become _friends_ with Malfoy?

"Which is exactly my point," Malfoy said. "We can't stand each other, clearly. I'm a Slytherin and a Death Eater and I represent everything you believe is wrong and evil. So why are you here?"

"There was a Slytherin once," Harry said, "who joined the ranks of the Death Eaters when he was sixteen."

Malfoy scowled at him, as though he thought Harry were mocking him.

"He had been raised in a wealthy, pure-blood family, like you. He was Sorted into Slytherin, as was expected of him, and lived up to his parents' expectations in every way. His family didn't follow Voldemort – stop that, will you? It's just a name, and a fake one at that – I said, they didn't follow him actively, but they agreed with many of his ideals. This boy, Regulus –" He saw Malfoy's eyes widen at the mention of the name – "got in with a bad lot at Hogwarts. Probably the same sort of people your parents hung out with, actually – he was your mother's cousin, you know? Regulus Black."

They had reached the door, but Malfoy didn't open it. He stood staring at Harry.

"He died really young," he said slowly. "Mother told me he had an accident."

"He didn't."

"I figured."

"Regulus became a Death Eater when he was sixteen, and he soon realised that he didn't have it in him to do the kind of thing that was required of him. He also realised that he didn't really agree with Voldemot's ideas – namely on the subject of house-elves. He had a very devoted house-elf whom he didn't consider worthless, if you can believe that. So Regulus turned against the Dark Lord."

"What happened to him?" Malfoy asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"He died," Harry said, "but he went down fighting. He stole something very important to Voldemort, at the cost of his life." Harry shrugged. "Obviously I don't expect you to ever do anything like that, but I just wanted you to know – I don't have anything against Slytherins in general."

Malfoy reached out and opened the door, stepping aside to let Harry through. "It's just me, then."

Harry looked at him, once again struck by the difference between Malfoy and his father. There was light in his eyes and something soft in the way long, pale lashes framed them, despite the harshness of his jaw.

"Yeah," he said. "It's just you."


	12. Next Time, I'll Just Let You Die

**Thanks everyone! Hope you like this chapter – I know I do.**

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><p><strong>Next Time, I'll Just Let You Die<strong>

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><p>Draco pulled his hood down lower over his eyes and turned into Knockturn Alley. His step grew a little more hurried, a little more urgent: an old habit since his first time accompanying his father here, when he'd been nine years old. He had to suppress a shiver. He liked some aspects of Knockturn Alley: it was an endless store of fascinating objects. But these days, it always reminded him of the vanishing cabinet and Dumbledore.<p>

He nearly walked right into a round-bellied wizard with a mean look, and ended up brushing past him to enter a small, unassuming building squashed between two much larger and brighter shops.

Inside, it as as small and dark and cramped as outside. The smell of old parchment, ink and leather hung in the air. A set of candles burned low in a corner.

"Back so soon, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco didn't start. He hadn't been able to see Jayce in the dark, but he'd known the old man would be here. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness before answering, looking straight at Jayce.

"These should be the last."

He'd said that last time, too, but Jayce didn't comment on it. He only shrugged.

"Let's see them, then."

Draco let his bag slip off his shoulder and pulled out the books, five of them altogether, most the sort you were as likely to use as a doorstop as you were to read them. A doorstop for a very heavy door. His shoulder was killing him.

"Akalin's _Booke of Magicks_," Jayce said, lightly stroking the cover of the topmost one. "Eighteenth century. Excellent condition, too. Are you sure –"

"I'm sure," Draco said.

He definitely didn't need these books in the family library anymore. Akalin had been a powerful, amazingly intelligent wizard, certainly. He'd also been a dark wizard. Draco could have just destroyed the books, but a part of him was loathe to do so. They'd been in the family for decades, some of them for centuries.

Jayce examined the books one by one. Draco waited patiently. He respected Jayce. The other man never looked down on him or sneered at him now, just as he had never bowed to him back in the days when his family had still been in some repute. Jayce didn't care what he read in the papers, he only cared about the quality of what you brought him, and how much he could make by selling it on the black market.

"Forty," he said finally.

"Akalin's is well worth that on its own," Draco argued. Haggling was so _common_ – but he actually enjoyed it.

"It is, but I'd have to find a buyer for it, and that's not so easy. That's why you need me."

Draco scowled, because he knew Jayce was right. They haggled for a short while, until eventually a price was agreed on. Gold switched hands, and when Draco left Knockturn Alley, his pockets were significantly fuller. His bag, thankfully, was empty.

He allowed himself to eye the storefronts in Diagon Alley. Flourish and Botts still had a couple of school textbooks in the window, and Draco lingered a little too long in front of them. It wasn't that he even _wanted_ to be back at Hogwarts. But it was where he _should_ have been, if things were normal. If his life hadn't been turned upside down, if he wasn't on probation, if Harry fucking Potter hadn't saved the world and damned him. If he, Draco, hadn't saved the Saviour's stupid life.

He tore himself away from the bookstore and walked into a little coffee shop instead to clear his thoughts. He asked for plain black coffee, no sugar or milk. When the bitterness hit the back of his throat, he grimaced.

The coffee shop was small and quiet. The waitress had served him quickly, and there was only one other client, an old witch who was staring insistently at him with beady eyes. Draco pulled his hood up to cover his hair and looked sullenly down at his cup. Maybe he should have stayed in Knockturn Alley. At least there, _everyone_ was criminal scum.

"Excuse me sir," the waitress' timid voice said. "I, er, I mean we are going to have to ask you to leave the premises. You're, er, making the clientele uncomfortable."

_I _am_ the clientele,_ Draco thought, but there was no point in making a scene. He threw his hood back – no point now, was there? –, stood up, and tossed the rest of his coffee back. It was still hot and burnt his throat on the way down, but there was no sense in wasting perfectly good coffee. He slapped a few coins down for the waitress and strode out, not without sparing a scathing glance for the other witch. She met his gaze squarely. There was no shame in her eyes, only a sort of grim satisfaction. He wondered who she was, if some of her family had died in the war. He tried not to think about her.

Her gaze haunted him all the way home.

* * *

><p>The weeks passed slowly for Draco. He couldn't fully enjoy his outings, but staying inside drove him mad. He despised idleness, but it was all he had left.<p>

The library had once been his favourite place in the entire house. It was stacked full of obscure old books, most of which Draco would never read no matter how many hours he spent here. He had always loved how it was quiet, and how his father never set foot inside. It had been his safe space, and he'd often sneaked in snacks and drinks despite the strict ban and spent whole afternoons there.

Now he hated it. Not fiercely, not with a passion the way he hated Potter, or the life debt, or his whole stupid situation. This hatred was dull, born of sheer boredom and frustration. The site of the library door was enough to make Draco feel claustrophobic.

That didn't make it any easier to invite Potter in the next time he came around.

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><p>Draco stared at Potter.<p>

"What's all that for?"

Potter grinned and moved past him easily, a loop of rope swinging at his belt. In his hand he held an assortment of hooks and clips.

"I've put this off for as long as I can, but I'm supposed to check the bare bones of the Manor... So some climbing is in order. I thought the library would be a good place to start. The window there looks ideal."

Draco blinked. "You're going to go rock-climbing on the walls of my house?"

"Basically, yes."

Potter moved down the hallway casually, clearly completely at ease with his surroundings. Draco closed the door behind him and followed.

"The Muggle way? With _rope_?"

Potter looked over his shoulder to flash him a quick smile. "The Muggle way is a lot safer than asking you to cast a Levitation Charm on me."

"Is that so?"

Draco lingered on the comment, not sure how to interpret it. Was Potter _teasing_ him? He wouldn't know how to take that. It would be as though Potter thought there was some sort of camaraderie between them, which there wasn't. On the other hand, it could have been more biting than joking, a reminder that the only reason Draco had saved him was the life debt, that he would have let Potter die if he had had a choice... _That _Draco could understand, and deal with.

"Well, considering you're not allowed to use magic on me, yes, I would say that's so."

So it had been neither. Just a statement of fact.

"You wouldn't turn me in anyway, so what does it –"

Potter stopped and turned to face him; Draco almost walked right into him. There was a small, mocking smile on Potter's lips. "Do you _want_ to be responsible for my injury if something goes wrong with your spell?"

"Please. I'm more than capable enough to manage a simple Levitation Charm –"

"Not without a proper wand you're not," Potter said, cutting him off. "You really should get a new one made. I honestly don't think Ollivander would –"

"Not going to happen," Draco said. "Forget it."

"Why?" Potter's eyes were intense.

"Will you just cut it out, Potter?" Draco snapped. "I _told_ you to stop seeing me as a hero. I'm not! I was _ready_ to watch you die. The real question is, why did _you_ save my life?"

Potter blinked. "What do you mean?"

"If you hadn't saved me, then I wouldn't have lifted a finger to help you. Why did _you _do it? I was your enemy. I was on the other side. If it had been anyone else, you would have let them die."

"You can't know that."

"If it had been my aunt? Or Greyback? You _would_, Potter, you'd have let them die in the fire."

He didn't seem to have anything to say to that.

"So why _didn't_ you let me die?"

"I couldn't," Potter said quietly, lowering his gaze. "I don't know why, but I – I couldn't watch you die." He raised his eyes to Draco's again. "Maybe because you tried to help, back at the Manor."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, you did. You knew it was me. How could you not know? You just didn't want to be the one to turn me in."

"Fat lot of good that did you." That had been cowardice, not bravery or pity.

"Luna told me, you know. About how you treated her while she was... here."

He stiffened, but kept his tone cool. "You know Lovegood is delusional."

"She's also extremely clever and brave," Potter said, bristling.

Yes. Draco could attest to that. He blinked, not wanting to remember those weeks.

"You kept her anchored," Potter went on, his tone softening. "Thank you."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Potter gave him a look that said he wasn't fooled, but he accepted the change of subject. "I don't know, exactly. I mean, it's like I told you. I couldn't _not_ do it. I couldn't _not_ try to help you. I'm just not like you."

That stung, though it shouldn't.

"Did you ever think things could have been different?" Potter asked. "That you didn't have to be a Death Eater – that maybe Dumbledore could have helped you? If you'd let Snape help you, the Order would have –"

"Oh, please," Draco said, frowning. "Give me _some_ credit. I was worthless as a Death Eater, but at least I knew what to do. And it was what everyone expected of me, _wanted_ me to be. If I had tried to join your side, Potter, how long would it have taken you – all of you – to trust me? Becoming a Death Eater was the easiest thing to do. The only thing I could do."

"You're wrong." Potter sounded sure of himself. "We're not – like that. Dumbledore wasn't like that. It would have worked out. We would have found a way to understand. Maybe that's the real difference between Slytherins and Gryffindors," Potter went on. "The ability to feel empathy."

"You mean pity." Draco was disgusted.

"No, I don't. I mean empathy. I bet you don't even know the difference."

Draco ground his teeth together, but said nothing.

"I didn't feel _sorry_ for you. You got what you deserved. I wasn't going to get all weepy about it." Potter looked hard at him. "But I _did_ feel empathetic. I could _imagine_ what you were going through, because... because I think I see a lot of myself in you. I suppose you can't understand that. You've certainly never bothered to try to do it for me. _Empathy_."

The words came out of their own accord. "What makes you so sure?"

Potter didn't even bat an eyelid before answering, swiftly, "Maybe the fact you'd like me better if I was dead."

Draco shrugged. "Well, wouldn't you?"

"Wouldn't I what? Like you better if you were dead?" Potter looked at him intently. "No, I wouldn't," he said bluntly. "I like you a lot more when you're alive."

That caught Draco off guard. "Why?"

"Because," Potter said, smiling at him. It was a genuine smile, almost affectionate, which scared the shit out of Draco. "I like having someone who still doesn't care either way about 'the Saviour.' Someone who just... doesn't like _me_."

"How ironic."

Potter gave him a quizzical look, but Draco didn't bother to elaborate. What a joke. How could Potter smile at him like it was _normal_, and then say something like that and _mean_ it?

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><p>Fifteen minutes later, Potter was standing on a window ledge, one arm on the wall inside the library to steady himself, the other one outstretched on the outside, holding his wand as he tapped at the stone wall with it. He stood on his tip-toes, precariously balanced, his head out of sight for Draco who was sitting inside in one of the plushy armchairs, arms crossed.<p>

"Found anything interesting?"

"I'm still trying to find where to attach the end of the rope," Potter replied. "Haven't even started looking yet."

His hand inched back slowly as he stretched out even more, groping against the wall for handholds. The feet on the windowsill also moved back, so that the only things keeping Potter balanced were his toes and the fingertips of one hand.

"You're useless."

"Coming from you, that doesn't hurt," Potter said flippantly, brushing the comment off as though it _really_ didn't hurt.

That threw Draco for a moment. He didn't like not having the ability to affect Potter.

"Merlin, this is hellish," Potter said from outside. "I didn't know they made rocks this sleek."

"There's this thing called magic," Draco said as he watched Potter move back again, a fraction of an inch.

"You know, when I was little, my aunt and uncle brought my cousin rock-climbing once. I only got to watch, but it looked like a lot of fun."

The smile was obvious in his voice, even though the memory didn't sound like a happy one. Draco wondered why Potter was telling him this.

"Hey, Pot –"

Draco didn't know what he meant to say, exactly. _Hey, Potter, you know what? I really don't care. Hey, Potter, what does this all mean?_ Or even _Hey, Potter – I think I might not hate you so much anymore_. But he would never know, because he never got the chance to say the words.

Potter slipped.

It happened very fast – his foot came down a fraction of an inch too far back and he let out a small sound of surprise as he lost his balance, teetering dangerously above the grounds. One of his feet slid out from under him and into emptiness. His entire body twisted on itself in a ridiculous effort to regain his balance, and his wand fell from his hand to the grass below, and Potter looked down.

Fear tore through Draco, blind, mind-numbing _fear_ for Potter's life, his fingernails digging deep into his palms as a desperate desire, no, a _need_ to do something, anything, filled him. He wrestled with the feeling as dread and denial warred in him, because _No, _he refused to do it. Not this time. _Not again._ And yet he felt himself rise out of the chair swiftly, panicked, as though his body and mind were separate, as though his body were betraying him.

Then it was over, the feelings simply gone, leaving Draco feeling suddenly empty as both fear and denial vanished. Suddenly, miraculously, Potter was on two feet again, and Draco was standing not a foot away from him, staring. Potter looked down at the ground, eyes wide. It had all happened in a second or two, and it was over now, but he could have hurt himself.

Could have... _died_.

By the most stupid of ways for the Saviour of the wizarding world.

It had all happened in an instant, but an instant was enough. Draco knew. He _knew_. It all clicked into place.

That _bastard_.

"Well," Potter said, his tone light, his expression slightly amused as he turned to look at Draco. "That was... intense."

Draco hardly registered the comment; he was too busy staring at Potter, whose expression quickly turned into a concerned frown.

"What's wrong, Malfoy? You've gone completely white."

Draco would never admit that in that split second during which he'd thought he was about to watch Potter fall, he had actually been _scared_ for the git. But it was true. _Fear_ was the feeling that had coursed through him, fast and hot, as he watched Potter slip. A sense of sheer _panic_ that he wasn't used to feeling, and that was saying something – Draco was no stranger to fear. He had felt that same fear once before – only once.

He stared at Potter. The fear had faded as quickly as it had gone, as soon as Potter was out of danger, leaving a dull anger rising in him by the second.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter said, casually swinging down from the window ledge. "It's all right. I just slipped. Nothing happened." He reached out to touch Draco's sleeve. "Are you going to be all right?"

Draco jerked away. "You _bastard_."

Potter looked confused. Not hurt – the words hadn't affected him. But confused as to where Draco's anger came from. _Confused_, as though Draco had no reason to resent him anything. The anger sharpened.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" he asked.

"Tell you what?"

"Don't play innocent," Draco said. "You know full well what I'm talking about – why didn't you _tell_ me I owed you two life debts? Cross that – when did it _happen_? I don't remember a _second_ situation, unless the trial counts – which it shouldn't!"

Realisation flooded Potter's expression, quickly followed by guilt. He _had_ know, and he had chosen not to tell Draco.

"It was during the Battle," he said, instead of denying it.

"Fuck!" Draco hadn't wanted it to be true.

"It happened after the Fiendfyre incident. You were with a Death Eater, telling him not to..." Harry rolled his eyes with the effort to remember. "Telling him you were on his side, but I don't think he believed you. I Stunned him – you didn't see me because I was invisible at the time. Um, you may have heard something like – 'That's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you –'"

"'– _Two-faced bastard_,'" Draco completed. "That was _you_?"

"Actually, that bit was Ron. The punch, too."

"I remember that," Draco said. "I wondered who it was – figures it was you, I should have known – you were invisible in Hogsmeade in third year, too."

"But I don't see why there's another debt – I didn't really save your life, did I? He wouldn't have killed you –"

"Apparently he would have." Draco shook his head, filled with horror as his suspicions were confirmed. "I owe you two life debts," he said, his voice icy. "_Two_."

"Just one now. You've already repaid one –"

"_Two_," Draco said again. "And you never thought that maybe I would want to know?"

"I didn't want it to be awkward –"

"_Awkward_? Trust me, Potter, there is nothing more awkward than being indebted to _you_ and not even _knowing_ it. Salazar." He swore under his breath. "You fucking liar. You _knew_ about this."

"I didn't," Potter denied. "I guessed, but I didn't know for sure. I just... thought it was a possibility. There was no point in telling you. Things were already difficult enough as it was."

"Are you at least sure there's just the one?"

"I'm sure. I didn't even know for sure if there was a second one, because you can't predict life debts. Look, I don't see why you're so angry about this –"

"You don't _see_? It's very simple, Potter. The fact is that I would rather be _dead_ than have been saved by you, even once. And _twice_..."

"Is that true? You seemed rather happy about it at the time. You _smiled_!"

"I didn't know it was _you_!"

"You're acting like a child," Potter snapped. "Listen, if it makes you any happier, next time I'll just let you die, all right?"

"Fuck off."

"Malfoy –"

"Leave! Just _leave_."

"Malfoy, don't –"

"For fuck's sake, Potter, _get out_!"

He left.

Draco let himself fall into an armchair, his head sinking between his hands, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

_Fuck_.


	13. Static Electricity

**And the next chapter – enjoy! I've hit 50k with this chapter so, yeah, this is turning out to be long. **

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><p><strong>Static Electricity<strong>

* * *

><p>For the next week, Harry could not get Draco Malfoy out of his mind. It gave him something to focus on when he zoned out of the boring lectures during Auror training. Wickley and Haff, who taught Defense and Offense (though the class was more casually known as 'duelling'), were experts in the matter. They could talk for ages, and though Harry was certain Hermione would have found their speeches fascinating and taken notes, most of the class spent these hours trying very hard not to close their eyes. Harry spent them thinking of Malfoy.<p>

The only problem was that even on the rare occasions when lectures were not on the menu, he still thought about Malfoy. And that was less easy to deal with.

Wickley and Haff's classes almost always ended with five or ten minutes of freestyle duelling: all and any spells allowed, except for curses. As Aurors, they were supposed to want to incapacitate their opponent as quickly as possible, and without causing them permanent harm. Wickley and Haff tended to cut off duels that lasted longer than ten minutes by casting their own hexes. The trainees in question often ended up with tentacles or purple scales for a couple hours. Harry had been on the receiving end of _that_ several times already, and it was obvious that the two instructors were as fond of him as he was of them.

"You're zoning out again," Neville said unhelpfully. "We've only got about two minutes left before they single you out."

Harry suppressed the ridiculous urge to jab him in the chest with his wand, and instead sent a particularly ferocious Stinging Hex his way. Neville blocked it skillfully, then tripped over his own feet, leaving Harry feeling vindicated.

It was almost as though there was a sign above Harry's head that said in flashing neon letters, MALFOY MALFOY MALFOY. Neville – and everyone else for that matter – had very quickly picked up on the fact that Harry was preoccupied with _something_, and that that something was not Auror training. A part of his mind seemed to be with Malfoy always. Even when he was in class, or having a laugh with Seamus, there was something that never left Harry.

He had seen things that should haunt him – he had watched his friends _die_ – and yet, the issue with Malfoy was what fascinated him. He only had to see a flash of grey, or the corner of a black cloak to think: _Malfoy_, and it was as though the thought had never really left him at all. Ron – and Seamus and Neville, to a lesser degree – could apparently see the duality in his eyes, because they had called him on it several times.

_"You still with us, mate?"_

_"Are you sure everything is all right?"_

_"Just – you're creeping me out a bit."_

(That last one was courtesy of Neville again.)

"Sorry," Harry said as Neville stood up again, grinning embarrassedly. "I was distracted for a moment there."

"Obviously not that distracted," Neville said ruefully.

Harry smiled at him, remembering the DA distantly. Neville had come a long way since then, but his lack of confidence still resurfaced every now and then and hindered his efforts.

Harry's smile faded and a nervous panic shadowed Neville's eyes when Wickley's hand closed down on Harry's shoulder, clamping down tight enough to be uncomfortable. Harry craned his neck to look the instructor in the eye.

"Care to give the class a demonstration, Potter?"

Harry gritted his teeth together. "Not particularly, sir," he forced out.

Wickley and Haff very neatly fell into the group of instructors who reminded him greatly of Snape and his condescension, but without the shadows of his past to account for their behaviour. (The other group kept assuring Harry he was brilliant even when he failed spectacularly at something, which he wasn't sure he preferred.)

"A pity," Wickley said, not sounding as though it were much of a pity at all. His teeth gleamed as he flashed a cold smile. "Longbottom's going easy on you. I think you could benefit from fighting someone else today."

Harry glanced at Neville, whose cheeks had pinkened at Wickley's words. He wished he could say something to reassure his friend. Neville gave his everything in every duel he fought, and he often did give whoever he was facing a good challenge. The only problem was that his nerves made his results vary greatly from one day to another. Only yesterday he had sent Harry sprawling after two minutes of fierce spell-swapping.

Besides, Harry vastly preferred having Neville as a partner than Alan George, the swotty Ravenclaw Ron had been assigned this week.

Said swotty Ravenclaw was the one Wickley had decided he want to see fight against Harry, and Harry tried to take comfort in the overjoyed expression that crossed Ron's face and the way his shoulders sagged with relief as he lowered his wand. The attempt mostly failed when Alan turned to give Harry a grin that was anything but friendly. _Great_.

Wickley brought his wand down swiftly in a sweeping arc, and a resounding noise cracked across the room. "George, come here. Potter, opposite him. The rest of you, stop where you are. Potter is going to give us a little demonstration."

Hary felt hot all over. He hated being singled out for no reason. The other trainees were looking at him a little curiously, as though expecting something from him, but –

"_Ow!_" he yelped, slapping a hand to his neck, where Alan's wordless Stinging Hex had hit him. "Wait a second –"

There was no sign that the duel had started, except for Wickley's satisfied grin. Harry grit his teeth and brought his wand up just in time to deflect Alan's next spell. His wordless spells only worked half the time, so he didn't bother trying, instead casting each one aloud. This only made them easier for Alan to evade, however, and within minutes Harry was sore all over, had blue hair, and couldn't see anything because his glasses were at the other end of the room.

"So much for the amazing Harry Potter," Wickley said gloatingly.

* * *

><p>Harry stared glumly down at the greyish glop on his tray. Ministry food certainly had nothing to do with the fare served at Hogwarts meals.<p>

"It's all right, Harry. Wickley and Haff were totally out line back there," Seamus said, sliding into the seat next to him and setting down his tray with a loud noise. "Everyone knows that."

"Yeah? Are you going to be the one to tell them, then?"

Seamus looked uncomfortable. "Look, Harry –"

"I know. I know."

Ron, sitting across from them, sensed an awkward conversation topic and swiftly changed it – to the only thing Harry wanted to talk about even less. "By the way, Harry, how is it going with Malfoy?"

"Fine," Harry said, setting his jaw.

Ron gave him a strange look. "Really? Hermione said you had –"

"I said it's _fine_, Ron."

Ron shrugged, backing off. "If you say so, mate. I was just asking."

Harry immediately felt guilty. It wasn't fair of him to take his bad mood out on Ron, but the anger and humiliation from the duelling class were still very near the surface and he couldn't bring himself to apologise. And thinking about Malfoy only irritated him further. There was more guilt to be found there. He couldn't get the way Malfoy had looked at him out of his mind – completely stunned, _betrayed_ even. And then he'd thrown him out of the house. Wasn't that just ridiculous?

He couldn't tell _Ron_ that. Ron was contracted to the Ministry, and if Harry didn't care to report Malfoy to the Ministry, Ron probably wouldn't have such qualms. He'd be doing the right thing, wouldn't he?

Seamus struck up a conversation with Neville as Harry gazed sullenly out the window, thinking of Malfoy. He should never have accepted the job. Blast him, Kingsley could have found someone else if he'd _really_ tried – he was the bloody _Minister_! Harry knew it was as much his obsession with Malfoy as his sense of duty – his "_saving people thing_," Hermione would say – that had made him accept. And that wasn't right. If Kingsley knew just how far the emotional entanglement went between Harry and Malfoy, he wouldn't have suggested this.

Malfoy still owed him a life debt.

This was the thought that bothered him to the point of obsession. It kept taunting him, always there in a corner of his mind. Sometimes, if Harry thought about it hard enough, he almost thought he could _feel_ the debt – a strenuous bond between them, the presence of _something else_ linked to him. It was stupid, of course. Whenever he reached for it, the feeling shattered. But it showed how deeply the knowledge affected him. He wasn't sure why the idea that Malfoy owed him a debt was so unsettling, but it was.

The whole concept of a life debt was ridiculous. If you'd risked your life to save someone, why would you want them to die for _you_? Harry couldn't imagine a situation in which he would want to see Malfoy die to save his life. He had felt a thrilling joy when Malfoy had thrown him the wand during the Battle, but that was something else. Back then, he hadn't known that Malfoy didn't have a _choice_.

"Harry. Harry, snap out of it."

Harry blinked and turned his head to look at Ron, who was glaring at him accusingly.  
>"You were doing it again."<p>

Something like anger – Godric, did he seem to have an unlimited amount of that lately – rose up in Harry, but he quickly suppressed it. "Sorry."

"You keep spacing out, mate. Are you sure you're all right?"

Harry could have snapped at him again, but he'd done enough of that already, hadn't he? Besides, Ron was only being persistent because he _cared_.

"Yeah. I'm fine, Ron. Just... thinking."

"Looks painful," Ron said.

Harry cracked a smile.

"You know, your food's getting cold."

"You sound like your mum," Harry said teasingly.  
>Ron didn't smile. If anything, he just looked uncomfortable. "About that, Harry – my mum's been wondering how you are. She won't believe you're fine if she doesn't see you, and you haven't been over in a few weeks, you know... Maybe you could stop by sometime."<p>

The guilt was back tenfold, and Harry winced. During the week, he had Auror training as an excuse for not making an appearance at the Burrow, blaming irregular hours and overall weariness. But Ron went home every weekend, and Harry hadn't once joined the family for supper. In fact, he had been consciously avoiding them. His excuse was that Malfoy took up most of his day and tired him out. (Only one of those was a lie.) Saturdays with Malfoy got him out of Saturday evening at the Weasleys'.

"I'm sorry," he said, wondering how he was going to get out of this one. "It's just, I've been busy..."

"Yeah," Ron said, frowning. "I know." His eyes said that wasn't all he knew, and Harry winced again.

"It's been difficult. Look, I'll make time, I promise."

"You don't have to if you don't _want_ to."

There it was, the twist of the knife. Pain sliced through Harry. He'd hurt Ron. He'd been hurting the Weasleys, who were the closest thing to a family he had. And for what? Because he didn't think he deserved the love, because he didn't want to go to the Burrow if Ginny wasn't there, because he wasn't sure he could face George? None of those were valid reasons.

"I'll be there Saturday," he said firmly.

Ron looked uncertain.

"I mean, if that's all right with your mum?"

"Yeah," Ron said slowly. "Yeah, it'll be fine... She'll love it. She'll be glad to see you."

"Me, too," Harry said, and wished the words didn't sound so bland.

Just then, a flash of blond hair made him start and jerk his head, staring after its owner – a tall woman who walked away briskly, her head down. He turned back slowly to face Ron, who hadn't missed the reaction but didn't know what had caused it.

"Harry, what –"

"Just jumpy," Harry said, and the lie to his best friend tasted foul in his mouth. "Always am after duelling class."

Ron just kept looking at Harry as though to say he wasn't fooled, but Harry didn't offer any further explanation. When Ron eventually turned to Seamus and started talking about something else, Harry didn't miss the disappointment in his expression.

* * *

><p>It was almost a relief to return to Malfoy Manor that Saturday. At least here was a place where nothing was expected of him – a place where no one trusted him or liked him or idolised him.<p>

"When did your father buy this?"

"Summer of '92."

"Where did he buy it?"

"Borgins and Burkes'."

"Did he ever use it?"

"No."

"Was he planning to?"

"Why do you care?"

Harry sighed and straightened up in the armchair, exasperated. "You do know you're being really immature, right?"

"I'm sure it's easy, being mature when the rest of the wizarding world idolises you," Malfoy snapped. "But when that's not the case, sometimes life gets the better of you."

"My life has been anything but _easy_ –"

"Oh, please. You've been a star since you were a baby. You're famous, you've had articles and whole books written about you, you're wealthy, you're headed for a glowing Ministry career – you'll probably end up being Minister twenty, thirty years from now. What a sob story. You know whazt, you're right. I'm so sorry you've had such a difficult life."

Harry stared at him, gobsmacked, speechless for a moment. Malfoy's spite seemed sincere; his tone was harsh and there was an underlying _jealousy_ to his words. But Harry couldn't quite believe that he really _meant_ any of it.

"You think – you think that's all my life is about? The _fame_? The _money_? I've always hated the attention – remember Rita Skeeter? I bet _you_ loved her, but I didn't, I hated her, she was this awful, dirt-digging, rumour-spreading –"

"Journalist," Malfoy completed. "Of course she was out to get the dirt on you. But no one actually _believed_ any of it."

"Are you kidding? Everyone believed her nonsense. _Everyone_. I can't _believe_ you think my life is such a fairytale – you should meet the Muggle family I used to live with! They hated me. I grew up with them as my only family. I never knew my parents –"

"Wait, is this the moment where I'm supposed to cry?"

"– and Voldemort tried to kill me, several times. Yeah, that was loads of fun – bet you wish you'd been there!"

Malfoy tilted his chin up defiantly and stared right at him. "I was."

Harry flinched. "Just that one time," he said quietly, but his anger was already deflating like a pierced balloon.

It had only taken those two simple words and that hard stare to change the atmosphere. Harry stared back at the dull iron wall of Malfoy's eyes and realised what this was all about. He leaned forward across the table to grip Malfoy's forearms and bring their faces close together. He could see the emotions written across Malfoy's face – defiance, a burning anger, denial.

"Something's wrong. Tell me what it is," he said firmly.

Malfoy immediately stiffened, and Harry realised he'd tried the wrong approach. For a moment, Malfoy simply stared at him, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a car; then he roughly pulled out of his grasp and shoved him back into the chair. Harry could see, for the first time, the Death Eater in Malfoy. He could see it in the way his eyes flashed and in the arrogant, aggressive stiffness of his spine.

"What do you _think_ is wrong? You lied to me is what's wrong. I owe you a life debt is what's wrong. I fucking owe you my _life_! If you suspected it, then you should have told me. You should have warned me! Instead I find out when you do something completely stupid and nearly _kill_ yourself."

"You didn't save me," Harry pointed out. "How do you know there's a debt? You didn't save me. Wouldn't you have –"

"I'm a wizard, Potter, not a miracle worker," Malfoy cut in. "Even magic isn't that fast. Believe me, I _know_. I can tell. When you slipped, the debt knew you were in danger, and it... I..." He stopped, as though he couldn't bring himself to say whatever it was had happened. "I tried, but I couldn't get to you in time."

Harry looked down at the elegant wooden table. "I didn't mean for it to end up like this."

"Really? Great. Then fix it."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" Harry asked, exasperated. "Trust me, if there was a way –"

"_Trust you_," Malfoy repeated, his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Yeah, that doesn't sound like a stupid idea at all."

Harry's jaw tightened, but he let the comment pass. "I've spent the past _month_ researching life debts," he said. It was only a small lie; he'd at least opened two books before the stuffiness suffocated him. "While I was trying to figure out whether we had contracted a second debt or not. There _is_ no way. It just can't be done. Unless you repay it."

"Fantastic," Malfoy said. "Owl me the next time you're planning on getting yourself killed, will you? I'll make sure I'm around." He scowled. "Can't you, I don't know, do it intentionally? And with no risk to myself?"

"I'm not going to put myself in a life-threatening situation on the off chance that you'll decide to save me, Malfoy."

"That's the whole fucking _point_, Potter. There _is_ no decision. If there was, then _you_ trust _me_, I'd let you die without a second thought. The problem is I don't decide anything anymore. The fucking _debt_ does."

"Surely you can –"

"No, I can't!" Malfoy's voice was loud, almost a shout; Harry stopped talking. "Don't give me that kind of talk, Potter. 'Surely you can...' You don't know what it's like, so don't try and pretend you do."

"Then tell me," Harry said. "Tell me what it's like."

For a second, it seemed like Malfoy was just going to ignore him, but then he started to speak. "The feeling – it's like – it's like – when you're in danger, like when you slipped last time, there's this _fear_ that takes precedence over everything. Nothing else matters, except the fact that you're in danger. That's how I knew there was a second debt – I felt that fear, right here." Malfoy pressed a fist to his chest. "You know, I honestly don't care whether you live or die, but the debt _creates_ this fear, forcing me to act. I can't decide. My body acts of its own accord, and all the while I'm thinking _No, no, no_, but it doesn't matter, because _I don't have a choice_. If I did, then you would be dead by now, I swear it, and the Dark Lord would still be alive, and I would still be serving under him."

The venom in Malfoy's tone made Harry start.

"Is that – how you would have wanted it to be?" Only a few weeks previously, he had been convinced to his core that there was some humanity in Malfoy; he told himself that was why this hurt so much.

"It's how it should have been." Malfoy closed the distance between them, leaning forward until he was in Harry's face. He pulled his sleeve up and thrust his arm forward, revealing the ugly black snake that lay there, the Dark Mark, forever inked into his skin. "Do you know what this _means_, Potter? It means I served the Dark Lord. It means _I thought he would win_."

Harry refused to back down; he stared right back at Malfoy. "Everyone thought he would win. Even I did, for a long time."

"But he didn't," Malfoy said. "You did. No one can understand it, but you did. And now I _owe_ you. You, the so-called 'Saviour'. The person I hated throughout all my years at school. The person who could have killed me in fifth year."

"Accident," Harry said shortly.

"I don't _blame_ you – I was going to cast the Cruciatus. But it just shows how much we couldn't stand each other, doesn't it?"

Harry tried to read into the depths of his cold grey eyes. "Could you really have done it? Put me under the Cruciatus?"

"Of course," Malfoy said coolly. "My aunt taught me how to use it. I could hold my own. It would definitely have been effective."

"But _would_ you have done it?"

Malfoy stared him down. "I've used the Cruciatus Curse on people I didn't even know. It would probably have been easier, using it on you."

A shiver ran up Harry's spine, but he tried not to let it show. "For how long?"

"Fuck, Potter, it was a defense mechanism. I was – you caught me – well, it was an instinctive reaction. I don't know what would have happened."

"I caught you _crying_."

The muscles in Malfoy's jaw tightened; he gave a sharp, jerky nod.

"You have pretty brutal instincts."

"I learnt from the best." Malfoy closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again. "It wasn't enough, apparently, or I'd never have ended up in this situation." He stepped back slightly and lowered his gaze to a spot on the floor in front of Harry's feet. "A _life debt._"

"Look, Malfoy, it doesn't matter, all right? It's not like I intend to call it in or anything."

Malfoy raised his head, heat and anger flashing in his eyes. "You really don't _get_ it, do you? You don't _understand_. You don't even _have_ to call it in, Potter. If you're in danger and I can do something about it, then I'm going to do it without any regard for my own safety. I won't have a choice." His jaw was set. "I've told you what happened during the Final Battle wasn't my choice. You wanted to make me out to be some kind of hero who put our past grudges aside and did what was _right_, butI'm not and I didn't. I didn't have a _choice_. And if something like that happens again, then I'll have to do it all over again. Do you realise how that makes me _feel_?"

That was when Harry pinpointed it, what exactly the emotion written all across Malfoy's face was. "You're _scared_."

Malfoy stiffened, but instead of denying it like Harry had expected, he didn't even reply.

"But what – what are you scared of?" Harry asked. "It's not like I spend my time getting into danger while you're around."

Malfoy shot him an incredulous look.

"Okay," Harry said. "I see your point. But that's over now. Voldemort's gone."

"It's not about _him_," Malfoy hissed; he hadn't even flinched at the name. "It's about _you_. You _attract_ trouble. You just can't seem to avoid it. I don't want to die for you, Potter. Is that so difficult to understand?"

"You won't have to."

"So you say." Malfoy shook his head, clearly not believing him.

"I promise, Malfoy, you won't –"

"You don't _know_ that," Malfoy said. "You _can't_ know. Don't go making promises you can't keep, Potter."

"I swear," Harry said. "I swear on my life –"

"_Don't_," Malfoy interrupted him harshly. "Don't swear on _that_. Anything but that! If you put your _life_ in danger, guess who's going to be there for you?"

Harry gritted his teeth, then forced himself to relax his muscles. He tried to soften his tone. "I don't want you to be hurt, Malfoy. I don't hate you. Do you know when I realised that?"

"No." Malfoy's voice indicated he didn't really care.

"It was in sixth year," Harry said. "In Myrtle's bathroom. When we –"

"I remember," Malfoy said, cutting him off.

"Yeah. Well... When I saw you, lying there, all bloody, I really thought you were going to die. Before Snape showed up, I really... well, you get the point. And I felt so..." He looked for the right word. "I felt awful," he said finally, though it sounded bland even to him. "I saw myself living in this world without you there to always taunt me, to provoke me, and you know what? I didn't think, _Oh, yeah, that'd be nice_. It just felt alien to me, imagining that, because ever since I discovered I was a wizard, you've always just _been there_, you know? And when I thought that you wouldn't be around anymore, I realised that I... I'd _miss_ you."

"You were just feeling guilty that you'd almost killed me," Malfoy said, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"There was some of that," Harry admitted. "There was a lot of that. I couldn't bear to think I had hurt you so badly. But there was something else, too. Even if it had been someone else... I never wanted you dead, Malfoy."

"You're too good to want anyone dead."

There was something in Malfoy's tone, something beyond the surface bitterness – wistfulness, maybe, or envy. It made Harry look up sharply, but Malfoy's expression was as blank and unreadable as usual. Harry scanned his face, looking for something, anything, but came up empty-handed.

"Don't make me out to be a hero," he said. "You, of all people... Don't. Just don't. Or these encounters will become even more unbearable."

"They're bearable," Malfoy said unexpectedly. "Just barely, but they're... not unbearable. You're not really _doing_ anything."

"I should be," Harry said. "Kingsley would have my hide if he knew. But so long as you don't kill anyone, I don't think he'll ever find out. Just try to live a normal life, and it'll be fine."

"Normal," Malfoy echoed. "I don't think I know what 'normal' is."

"Neither do I," Harry said with a grin. "That doesn't bode well."

Malfoy shot him a look, one that was hard and assessing. "How can you joke about this?"

"Excuse me for trying to make this a little more livable."

"Just do your job. Don't act like we're friends."

"Trust me," Harry said, "I don't treat my friends like this." He set his jaw. "Fine. You can help me write up my report for this week, then. I need to come up with ideas for what you've been doing these past two weeks. Maybe you bought something for your mother's birthday or something. Is her birthday coming up? Maybe, I don't know, you went for a walk in Muggle London."

"Unlikely," Malfoy observed. "Wait, you _make up_ things about me?"

"Obviously," Harry said. "I told you I wouldn't ask what you were really doing, but I still have to tell the Auror Office _something_. Preferably something believable, but it doesn't have to be, as long as it's not illegal. At the moment, your file must be very boring to the one who reads it. Maybe I should spice it up a bit. I could have you do something, like work out, or swim. Maybe you're a closet, I don't know, handkerchief collector."

Malfoy looked perplexed. "You're joking. Why are you joking? There's nothing funny about this situation."

"That's why we should try to _make_ it funny. But I suppose with you around that's a lost cause. You have no sense of humour."

Malfoy looked like he was going to protest for a moment, but then he ducked his head and let it pass. "Maybe you should go back to checking out those artefacts."

"Or maybe I could take your word for it that they're not Dark," Harry said.

Malfoy didn't even look surprised, though he tensed a little at the words. Then he gave a strangled little laugh.

"I just don't understand you, Potter. Sometimes I think we don't even speak the same language, and that's why nothing you say ever makes sense." Malfoy's lips curled into a sneer and he deliberately accentuated his aristocratic accent when he said, "Merlin knows you do butcher English."

Harry smiled at that. "I'm sure I don't sound half as ridiculous as you do."

"Don't you have a job to do, Potter?"

"Actually," Harry said, "my _job_ is to talk to you, something you don't seem to want me to do. I'm supposed to ask you what you did this week, why you left the house three times, how your parents are doing, if you've bought anything recently, if any of you have been sick, if you've been drinking... I have a list, but I don't think you'll be interested."

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, absentmindedly messing it up – something Harry had never seen him do. "I'm sick of this," he admitted.

"So am I. I never wanted this." Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve this."

"Of course I don't."

"You don't," Harry insisted. "I know this is difficult for you. I know –"

"Don't feel sorry for me." Malfoy's tone was sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't you dare, after what you've done, fee –"

"For Merlin's sake," Harry said. "Why do you have to be so bloody annoying all the time? It's like you _have_ to take offence at everything I say, you _have_ to pick fights with me and you _have_ to act like I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you. I _understand_ that this is hard, Malfoy. I _understand_ that you can't stand me, but maybe you should grow up and get over it."

Malfoy didn't even get angry. He swept his eyes over Harry without saying a word, looking so cool and superior and untouchable that it infuriated Harry more than any insult could have.

"You always have to act like you're above me, don't you? When you don't know what to say, you pretend I'm beneath your notice."

Malfoy's lips curled into a half-smile. "That's not why I do it."

Of course not. Malfoy _not knowing what to say_ was just wishful thinking on Harry's part. The truth was blatantly obvious to both of them: Malfoy _knew_ his not speaking irritated him.

"Funny," Harry said, not thinking it was at all funny, "that someone who knows me so well tries to make me believe _I_ don't know him at all."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "If you hate me so much, why are you even doing this?"

"I never said I hated you."

"You do, though."

Harry ran his hands through his hair. "Godric you're annoying. I've already told you I _don't_. I don't hate you. I've never been able to."

"Of course. Envy, hatred, resentment... You're _above_ all that, aren't you?"

"Of course not," Harry retorted. "Merlin. I'm not a saint. You of all people should know that. I almost killed you!"

"Doesn't count as murder when the victim had it coming."

"Yes, it does," Harry said firmly. "Killing is never right."

"Even killing the Dark Lord?"

Harry felt his jaw tighten. "Even him."

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah, well, so are you. For Merlin's sake, do you have to have such a pessimistic outlook on everything? On everyone, even yourself?"

"I was born to be a pessimist," Malfoy said fluidly. "My blood type is O negative. As in, optimistic _not_."

Harry blinked at him. "Was that – a joke?"

"No, Potter, it was not."

"It _was_ a joke!" Not a very funny one, but still... "Blimey, Malfoy – I really didn't think you knew any jokes. You sure pick your moment – how did we go from Voldemort to jokes?"

Malfoy stiffened at the name. Harry looked at him, analysing his expression – mildly irritated, mostly closed-off. His hands lay flat on the table in front of him.

"You didn't deserve to die," Harry said softly. "Okay? If anything, I'd have missed you if you'd died. You're not... You know how Dumbledore said you weren't a killer?"

Something flickered in Malfoy's expression; his fingers curled slightly. "How do you know about _that_?"

"Doesn't matter," Harry said. "I just meant... You're not like them. I know you're not."

There were other things he wanted to say – things about Snape, things about the bathroom incident, things about how he'd never really hated Malfoy – but when he reached out and brushed his fingers against the back of Malfoy's hand to illustrate this, the words stuck in his throat. Something like a spark shot up his arm straight to his chest, almost painfully; then another feeling, a jarring, intense fear that Harry knew did not belong to him. He snatched his hand back reflexively; for a moment, the exchange reminded him of the flashes he had been able to see of Voldemort's mind. His scar didn't hurt, but the feelings were just as vivid. Harry thought he saw something shift in Malfoy's expression as he looked down at his hand, curling the fingers reflexively.

"Did you feel that?"

Malfoy looked up. "Feel what?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"It was like... static electricity."

Malfoy looked at him blankly. "Static _what_?"

Harry shook his head slowly, clearing his thoughts. "Never mind," he said. "Just my imagination, I suppose."

But it wasn't. And he knew it hadn't been the sharp zap of static electricity. This tingle lingered, even though they were no longer touching. But Malfoy didn't seem to have noticed. Harry sighed.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked.

Harry almost laughed at the obviously forced show of concern. "Nothing. It's just, I've had a pretty shitty week, and I figure tonight's going to be even shittier."

"Auror training not all it's cracked up to be, then?"

"No, it's cool, I just... Sometimes it just feels like I don't really _exist_ to people, and –" he flushed and ran a hand through his hair – "and that just sounded really conceited, didn't it?"

He knew Malfoy was going to sneer and say something about how many times he'd been in the _Prophet_ and he couldn't really be more visible than that if he tried – but instead, Malfoy propped his elbows up on the table and stared at Harry, his chin resting on his hands.

"No," he said quietly, pensively. "No, actually, it doesn't."

And just like that, a door was opened, a floodgate of realisation. Harry saw things, drew parallels, noticed similarities – and he realised that really, maybe he and Malfoy weren't so different after all. And it scared him.

"I should go," he said, standing up. "I just – I'm done here for today, yeah? See you next week, I guess."

Malfoy mumbled something, and curiosity made Harry stop in his tracks.

"What was that?"

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" Malfoy repeated clearly.

The air around them went very still. Harry raised his eyes to meet Malfoy's. "_What?_"

"You aren't deaf, Potter. It's getting late, we were having a conversation – I'm asking you whether you want to stay a little longer."

Harry was stunned. "I... I can't," he said when he regained control of his vocal cords. "I'm having dinner with the Weasleys tonight."

Malfoy looked unsure whether that was the truth or just an excuse, but he nodded curtly. "I see."

"I really am," Harry said, biting his lip. "Malfoy, I... Thanks for the invite. But really, I can't. Not tonight."

He would have said, _Maybe next time_, except he was certain the invitation was a one-time thing that Malfoy was already regretting.

* * *

><p>Hermione Floo'ed him that night from some professor's office. Harry almost jumped out of his skin when he saw her face in the fire. He'd been about to leave for dinner at the Weasleys', having given up trying to flatten his hair.<p>

He knelt in front of the fireplace. "Sorry, Ron's at the Burrow."

"Hello, Harry," Hermione said pointedly. "Did you really think I would Floo your place to talk to Ron?"

Harry looked ashamed. "Sorry. I, er, how are you?"

"Fine, fine." She looked a little worn, but it was hard to tell in a fire. "I just thought I'd check up on you. Today was your Malfoy day, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry said, unable to stop a little sigh from escaping him.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "If he's giving you any trouble –"

"He isn't," Harry said hurriedly. "Really, Hermione. Don't worry about him. It's not just Malfoy."

"Then what is it?"

"I've been doing some thinking, lately, and I just... Actually, Hermione, since you're here – what do you know about life debts?"

Hermione looked wary all of a sudden. "Not much. They're not well-documented. There's no way to know when a life debt will be formed or not. Why?"

"It was just... something I thought about."

"Oh, _Harry_."

Hermione's voice was so full of compassion and understanding that his eyes jumped to hers, scanning her face. Did she _know_ something? His gut clenched at the thought.

"It's nothing important," he said hurriedly. "I was just wondering. I didn't know they existed until recently. I guess I wondered whether there was any way to... cancel a life debt."

Hermione looked incredibly sad. "As far as I know, there's no way to just declare a life debt null and void, Harry. Once it's been contracted, that's it. It'll exist until it is repaid."

"But surely someone, some day, must have found a way to work around it. It's such a restrictive magic I can't imagine everyone just putting up with it for centuries."

"It wasn't like that." Hermione sighed. "Harry, it's... it's complicated. There are things about magic we don't fully understand. It's not _science_, you know, it's magic. Those prophecies Trelawney made about you, or the fact that your mother dying to protect you cast such a powerful protection over you. Those are things we've _accepted_, but we don't really understand them. It's the same with the concept of life debts. They're not a tangible thing. Some wizards doubt they even exist." She hesitated. "When you told me Wormtail died because of his debt to you..." She looked away and bit her lip. "Some might scoff and say it was his conscience finally making an appearance. Or that his hesitation cost him his life and his own hand turned on him. But I think he didn't have a choice. You saved his life. He had to repay that. The hand didn't betray him; he betrayed himself. You forced him to."

A sick feeling pooled in Harry's stomach.

"Life debts have been mentioned in writing from as early as the sixteenth century, but never with a clear definition. Only a few things are certain. It's an amazingly powerful magical bond that is created by saving a person's life while risking your own in the process, and only if you don't already owe that person a life debt. It links the two people, to the point of making the indebted fulfill their debt unwillingly. It can come into action at any time. Why some cases of saving someone's life seemed to contract life debts, while others clearly didn't, how exactly the life debt is enforced, or how to cancel it... No one knows, Harry. I'm sorry."

"Someone must have tried. There _has_ to be a way. "

"I'm sorry, Harry. There isn't. And as long as it's not fulfilled, you can't know what will trigger it or when. The indebted person will suddenly feel the urge to help you, to put themselves in danger for you, and they won't be able to resist it."

"What about feelings?" Harry asked, thinking of the tingle that had shot up his arm when his and Malfoy's hands had brushed, and of what he had felt when Malfoy had invited him to stay for dinner. "I mean, what if the two people hate each other?"

"Doesn't change anything regarding the debt."

"Can the debt affect feelings, though?" Harry insisted. "You said it created a very strong magical bond between the two involved. Does the bond affect anything else?"

"I don't know, Harry."

Merlin, how he hated hearing those words come from Hermione.

"I suppose... I suppose it could be possible. In some cases. Maybe. I mean, it's not entirely out of the question."

These were the words he had been hoping against hope she would not say.

"Life debts are too fluctuating a magic for me to be able to predict their effects accurately, Harry... but it's possible, I think." Hermione suddenly looked very uncomfortable. "I don't know how to say this, Harry, but what happened to Wormtail wasn't your fault. He made his choices. In the end, what happened to him... I don't want to say he deserved it, but maybe it was for the best. You shouldn't feel guilty."

Harry started. _Guilty, over Wormtail?_ The thought had hardly crossed his mind. He'd felt sick, yes, but he didn't want to waste time regretting how Wormtail's life had ended. Even if he would have preferred to give Pettigrew a fair trail... it just hadn't worked out that way. But he wasn't about tell Hermione about Malfoy's debt to him.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I suppose you're right, Hermione. Thanks." He smiled at her. "Thanks for checking in. I have to get going; Mrs Weasley will worry if I'm late. Bye."

"Bye, Harry," Hermione said reluctantly.

Harry stepped back from the fireplace, Hermione's words still rolling in his mind. _"I suppose it could be possible."_

"Damn you, Malfoy," he muttered, looking at the wall, and felt some comfort in the fact that, somewhere in Wiltshire, Malfoy was probably thinking the same thing about him.


	14. Family

**A quieter chapter, but significant.**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Family<strong>

* * *

><p>A bird chirped outside the window, and Draco scowled and slammed his book down on the table beside him. He got up from the armchair, shut the window, and sat back down again. Damn, but he <em>hated<em> this place. It was almost noon and he'd been in the library all morning, just like every morning since Potter's last visit. He'd gone through several huge, stuffy books, looking for – _something_. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but he was certain he'd know when he found it. And it was with that certainty in mind that he'd made his way through Alfen's dreadfully dull _Souls and Sorcerers_, Maggedite's _Science of the Soul_, and Gharrad's _Inventory of Inexplicable Magical Phenomena_. He hadn't found anything yet, but whenever he thought about giving up, he remembered the look on Potter's face and that damned _spark_, and he knew he couldn't.

Draco had just managed to focus on his book again when the door swung open without warning. He started. His father stood in the doorway, an inscrutable expression on his face.

Draco glanced back down at the page he'd been reading. "Did you need something?"

"Have you seen your mother?"

Draco frowned. "No, I haven't. I've been here all morning."

"Oh."

Something in his father's tone made Draco look up again. "I thought she was with you." He tried not to let the accusation shine through in his tone, but Lucius caught it anyway: his lip twitched.

"Your mother is allowed to go where she pleases, you know. I don't follow her around the house."

Draco shrugged. "Well, what are you worried about, then?"

"I haven't seen her in over an hour. The house-elf doesn't know where she is, either."

Draco closed his book, making a mental note to remember the page number (121). "You looked for her?"

"This is the only room I haven't checked."

"Well, she isn't here," Draco said. He drew his wand, thinking of casting a _Homenum Revelio_, but a gesture from Lucius stopped him.

"If you think I haven't already tried, you've forgotten who you're talking to. She isn't here, Draco. She left."

Draco felt a coldness creep over him. "Outside?"

Lucius didn't reply. His expression was studiously blank, as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him, but Draco knew better. He could read his father's concern in the stiffness of his back, the vein that pulsed in his temple, the way his fingers fluttered constantly, as though itching to _do_ something.

Draco stood up, mind racing. His mother, outside. It didn't have to be bad. She might have just gone out for coffee or something. Except it was the first time she left the house since the trial, and Draco had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Why would she have left without telling anyone? Was it that she hadn't thought to warn them – that she had _forgotten_ to? Salazar, what if she wandered out and _forgot_ how to get home?

"Your mother isn't senile, Draco," Lucius said sharply, as though he could hear the thoughts going through Draco's head.

Draco clenched his fist so tightly his fingernails broke the skin on the palm of his hand. He thought, _If you really believed that, you wouldn't be so worried_, but what he said was, "I know. Look, I'll go look for her. You stay home in case she comes back."

"No," Lucius said. "I'll go. I know her favourite places better than you do."

"I know them well enough." The thought of his father out on the streets made him cringe inwardly.

"Give me one reason you should go," Lucius said, meeting his gaze levelly.

Draco hesitated. How could he tell his father he didn't trust him to be outside? How could he say he was trying to _protect_ his parents? Lucius watched him, and Draco gave in.

"Fine. You go. But bring her back the _minute_ you find her, and –"

"I'm not a fool, Draco."

Lucius turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing silently behind him. Draco sat back down on the edge of a table and was surprised to realise he was shaking. _Get a grip_, he told himself, annoyed. There was, logically, no reason to worry. His parents were adults, and so was he. He tried to push the matter to the back of his mind, and opened his book again to page 102. His eyes went over the first few paragraphs several times before he realised it was the wrong page and flipped to page 121. He read that page three times, and each time could recall none of it by the time he'd reached the last word, so he shut the book again and pushed it to the edge of the table.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He walked out of the library, leaving the damn book behind. He needed to clear his mind. Right now, he was too annoyed to think straight. When he saw his mother again, he would – do _something_, he thought helplessly.

A blast of fresh air greeted him when he stepped out the front door. A white peacock strutted in front of him, its long tail feathers brushing across fallen red and gold leaves. Draco scowled. He'd have to see to it that those were picked up. _Later_.

He kicked a few of the leaves out of the way as he made his way around the manor. He loved the sprawling grounds, always had. He'd learned to fly here, and to him the place still held that intangible air of freedom and innocence. He remembered the time he'd flown right into the rosebushes. He'd been scratched up from head to toe, but he'd only gabbled excitedly about how _fast_ he could go as his mum fussed over the cuts. _Damn_. How old had he been? Seven, eight? It seemed a lifetime ago. He'd always been stupidly proud of his flying – at least until Harry fucking Potter showed up and showed _him_ up.

His thoughts had gone full circle, from Potter and the debt to his mother and back to Potter again. Draco shook himself, and realised his steps had led him to the far end of the grounds, where no rosebushes grew. The leaves that littered the ground seemed darker here, a brown as dull as dirt, but the grass beneath them was tall and straight and bright green: no one ever walked here. Draco glanced over his shoulder at the manor, looming darkly behind him. It wasn't that far, but he honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been here. Strange that his feet had guided him here.

Ahead of him stood a stone fence, knee-high and crumbling in places. The gate was made of wood in impeccable condition and older than Draco cared to remember. It hung slightly ajar – just a few inches.

A chill ran up Draco's spine and a firm certainty took hold of him. He crossed the fence and walked past the first rows of abandoned Malfoy graves, knowing, without really knowing, where he was going. He turned left, then right, heading to an extremity of the cemetery where the tombstones were less crumbling, the inscriptions more readable, until he finally stopped in front of a wide slab of clean, very new stone. His mother was kneeling on the ground before it, completely still.

Whatever irritation Draco felt instantly vanished, gone Merlin knew where. The harsh words he'd been planning to say to his mother died in his throat when she raised unseeing eyes to his and said dully, "She should be buried here."

He didn't need to look at the tombstone to know whom she meant, to see the name and date inscribed there.

_Bellatrix Adhara Lestrange, née Black_

_7 January 1951 – 2 May 1998_

"Where is my sister?" Narcissa said.

"I don't know," Draco lied. He tasted bile in the back of his throat, remembering Azkaban.

Aunt Bella hadn't even been a Malfoy, but he wasn't surprised his father had indulged his wife with this empty grave. Narcissa and Bellatrix had been close. Bella had always been more Black than Lestrange.

"I think about her, sometimes. I wonder whether she thinks of me."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. _No_. "She's dead," he said harshly.

"No, she isn't," Narcissa said softly, and for a second Draco's spirits sank and he thought she had gone mad, really truly mad, and thank Merlin she'd only gone as far as the cemetery – "I had two sisters, Draco."

Draco was thrown for a moment. What _was_ she talking about? But then he remembered: snide comments from the other Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's unpleasant teasing, Bella's own vitriolic remarks... What was her name? Salazar, had none of them ever mentioned her _name_?

"Andromeda," his mother said softly, and yes, somehow, that rang a bell.

Draco blinked. His mother _never_ spoke of the sister who had married a Mudblood. She'd been dead to the whole family for longer than Draco had been alive.

"I thought you hated her."

Narcissa flinched.

"Sorry," Draco muttered, knowing he'd said something he shouldn't have.

"Don't be." A sudden clarity appeared in his mother's eyes. "What time is it?"

"A little past noon."

Narcissa jumped up. "Oh, no. I told your father I wouldn't be long –"

"Don't worry," Draco said. "He'll just be glad you're all right."

"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

Draco didn't answer. He watched as she brushed the dirt off the front of her robes. She _did _look all right. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her blond hair perfectly in place. She took his arm and gently steered him back to the manor.

"But how are _you_? I haven't seen you all morning. What were you doing?"

_Ah_, thought Draco. _Back to Potter again_. All was normal.

* * *

><p>The baby squirmed in Harry's lap. Harry squinted at him, trying to see something of Remus in his face. It was hard, because the kid looked different every time he saw him. Today, his hair was buttercup yellow.<p>

"It's been like that for three days," Andromeda explained. "I don't know why, he tends to prefer brown usually, but..." She shrugged.

Harry smiled weakly as Teddy held his arms out to his grandmother when she spoke. Teddy was a cute kid (when he wanted to, at least), but Harry felt uncomfortable having such a young baby in his lap. He felt like he was holding an antique: something extremely precious and extremely fragile.

"His eyes are grey today," he said inanely, to fill the awkward silence. He didn't dislike Andromeda, but they didn't know each other well, despite Harry's efforts to visit Remus' son semi-regularly.

Andromeda started and gave Teddy a closer look. "They are," she said quietly, sounding stunned.

Something in her tone made Harry look down at Teddy again. After a second, he realised he'd seen that grey before. Sirius' eyes. Bellatrix's eyes. They had been that exact shade of grey. He winced at his own tactlessness. Andromeda had lost her daughter, husband, and son-in-law to the war. She scarcely needed reminding that her own sister had killed Tonks.

"It's good of you to come," Andromeda said after a few beats. "I suppose it does Teddy some good, to see someone who isn't his stuffy old grandmother..."

She trailed off. Merlin knew she was doing her best at being a parent a second time around, but whenever Harry came over, he _sensed_ that she was shrouded in sorrow, and that Teddy, so full of life and laughter, tired her out. He could understand that. Even his infrequent visits stressed him out. A baby was so much responsibility. _I should have been his godfather_, he thought. And then what? Would he have had to raise Teddy? Would Andromeda have let him?

"You should come over sometime," Harry said vaguely. "You two are always welcome at mine – or maybe we could have dinner at the Weasleys, I'm sure Mrs Weasley would be –"

"That's very kind of you, Harry," Andromeda said politely, and Harry knew she had no intention of taking him up on the offer.

He looked at her. Teddy had the grey eyes today, but Andromeda had the most striking resemblance to Bellatrix. Something about the jaw, the cheekbones, even the hair. He wondered whether they'd been close in their childhood, and if Andromeda ever thought about the family who had disowned her. Damn, but he didn't want Teddy to grow up an orphan, raised by a sad grandmother who made him the sole purpose of her life, never knowing what a real family could be. Harry wanted to give him so much more than that. He thought of his own parents, and the Dursleys. He'd seen them only once since the end of the war, to let them know he was safe and sound – not that they seemed to care so much. They weren't his family, never had been.

"How is life treating you?" Andromeda asked.

"Oh, everything's fine, just great," Harry said, the lie springing easily to his lips. He'd said much the same thing to Ron only hours earlier. "Auror training is really interesting, I just knew –" He pressed his lips tightly together, silently berating himself for mentioning Tonks' profession. "Things are pretty different now, though."

"Yes, they are," Andromeda said quietly.

They avoided each others' eyes for a few long seconds, and then both started when there came an insistent tapping at the window. Andromeda sprang to her feet and let in a small, snooty-looking grey owl with impeccable feathers.

"I don't recognise it," she said, untying the envelope and turning it around in her hands.

No sign indicated whom it might have come from. She tore it open and sat back down across from Harry. Harry watched as her eyebrows drew closer together as she read the letter. By the time she finished it, she was holding it so tightly it had begun to crumple in her hands.

"Harry, are you still assigned to the Malfoys?"

"Er, yes, why?"

The corner of her mouth twisted down in an ugly scowl. "The next time you see Draco Malfoy, tell him to leave me and my grandson alone."

She handed him the letter; Harry read it quickly, his disbelief growing with every word. The phrasing was awkward, the tone too formal and polite. What had Malfoy hoped to gain from it? Why would he have contacted Andromeda at all? His professed _'desire to reconnect with the family'_ was hardly credible. At least he'd had the decency to sign off with his name, not _'your nephew.'_ Harry looked back up at Andromeda, whose face was white with fury. He could hardly blame her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll, er, I'll ask him when I see him –"

"There's nothing to _ask_," she said icily. "_Tell_ him I never want to see him or any other Death Eater. Tell him if he ever tries to contact me again, I'll call the Ministry. Tell him if he or his parents ever show up on my doorstep, they will regret it." She leaned over and snatched Teddy away from Harry; Harry could hardly conceal his relief. There was a fierce, protective expression on her face as she cradled the baby in her arms. "You do your job, Harry. I don't want to receive another owl."

"You won't," Harry promised.

He left, wondering how the hell he was going to broach the subject with Malfoy.


End file.
